thirty-eight

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like a fan-fiction story

where a contented and cheerful being   l o v e d   the endless misery life of a human being

at the end the author will decide

but that time i   d i d n 't   wanted to wake up

from this such fantasy

that later i will wake up on.

was it really a fantasy?

or just a   t e m p o r a r y   bubble?

or it was just a maladaptive dreaming

in the abyss of agony

where love, i was craving for.

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