January 15th, Year 22

I travel back in time for fun and for torture, never finding anything worthwhile. Many times over, I make an attempt at changing what I have done and said. The words will not mold to my desires. My actions run faster than my thoughts.

Life as a performer in the Panic Circus. Mind racing, palms sweating, catastrophic thoughts. My health is precarious, life is dangerous. A plane will fall from the sky, the heart will give out, the dead will rise from their graves. No one can stop it. The flood will destroy everything.

I am my father. I neglect myself, existing only when there is hatred to take out on someone. It will always turn in on itself.

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January 15th, Year 22

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