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My Thoughts And Actions Are Wasted On Fixing The Broken Damage Done In The Picture You Painted

from Will I Always Have A Cold Heart When I Look At This Room And Wonder Why I'm Just Like Them, But I Can't Remember Why? by Wings Of An Angel

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Wings Of An Angel Israel

My own identity feels like a construct, a collection of roles and personas worn like so many masks. Who am I, really?

Perhaps in the end, we are all just characters in someone else's novel, puppets dancing on strings we cannot see.
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