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minertolake.blogspot.com

What if none of this is real and we are all made of paper? Suicide would be as simple as walking out into the rain. The next morning they'd find us in a mush, running clumpy down the sidewalk, an arm on the grass, a leg in the gutter.

Oh to be light as paper. Get swept up in the wind. Eat clouds. That's how it should always be. Not trapped under rocks like weights. We were meant to never have a home. Call it wandering. Call it freedom. I'll call it escape.

"Thin As Paper"