Books are a refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge, from the vulgarities of the actual world.

Walter Pater

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Waiting
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Waiting... to be born again
Wanting... the saddest kind of pain
Waiting for the day when I will crawl away
Nothing is what I feel
Waiting... for the drugs to make it real
Waiting... for the day when I will crawl away
Waiting... to be disciplined
Aching... for your nails across my skin
Waiting... for the day when I will crawl away