It’s the kind of ticklish pain etched onto the skin, when a person, like chapters to an intriguing novel, can never be unraveled. A hunger that devours the heart and mind, it makes one wait for daylight — awake without a flicker.
Writings of a Phobophobe.
It’s the kind of ticklish pain etched onto the skin, when a person, like chapters to an intriguing novel, can never be unraveled. A hunger that devours the heart and mind, it makes one wait for daylight — awake without a flicker.
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