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Letter #12

976 79 7

Dear Anxiety,

I'm a ticking time bomb, whose time is running out. I can't run for cover. There's no hiding from it. Once I go off, only my remains will be left. Fragments of myself will be scattered all over the place. Pieces will litter what I used to call a home. I am hopeless as I see it coming. Some things are unavoidable. I just wish there was something I could do so nobody else goes down with me. But casualties are inevitable at times of war.



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