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Dear Diary, perhaps you might tell me: "What Do You See?"
Cause the mirrors offer a reflection, that just cannot be: An eighteen year old boy, who's both happy and healthy.
Dear Diary, Dear... Who? Perhaps you might credit the broken creature that penned you. The one that inflicted these tears and tears; these crude reflections... recreations of its own scars and pains.
Dear Diary, Dear... Who? This question is one, that you wonder too. Perhaps ironic, as the answer is known only by you; just call me, Dear Who.
Who am I?
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