Can life at hidden costs make you look at pretty people who look at inessentials who wage beauty from replicating identities that conceal better places who wish to love anyone who burn their expressive talent to find darker entertainment that shame an order of influential infamy of an acquisition through simple memories to find our loss of originality. I can’t pretend to look happy when I’m normal. If it’s sad to hate a person, maybe self worth is a reinstatement to find beauty to love more.

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