I feel the need to write, for I know not how else to express myself
To let these words surge forth from inside me, a weak reflection of the intensity of my feelings, yet nevertheless quite helpful in relaying what the blur of sensations is like
I feel the need to formulate – form everything up word by word before It is too late
I have many questions, and I ask them seemingly endlessly with no response in sight
And even with age the structure of the questions but little change
But still I write on, for I know not how else
In a world where virtually everything is illusion and the only truths seem to be incommunicable
So for what use are these words that I write, when the language of the soul yet remains a mystery?

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