Why is it, I am falling from mountains, and why is it, I am laughing on pain. What is this, sort of, craving for estacy, How come it, neither break nor it bends. How can I, keep on playing realities, and why does I have no foe or no friend. Something is, kind of, constantly calling me, making me neither fool or no saint. Hundreds of questions, lulling so deep within, what will I do, if I face them again.
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