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Sorry, I can't post today, just got some blood work done and I'm not feeling well.
In the mind of a builder,
Everything must fit together.
Everything.



In the end, it will all fit together.
In the mind of a builder, it's both a blessing and a curse...
Fake memory.
Fake sounds.
Fake sights.
Hell.
This poem is about how I used to have seizures in the frontal lobe which controls your memories, auditory, and visual senses.
Time spent.
Time wasted.
Fake, Flashes.
Brain, Broken.
Lucid Nightmares.
Death, Torture, Nightmares.
Fake.
If you want it done right, you should just do it yourself.
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