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Whenever I go back through my old journals, I find things that I wrote that sound like they've come from some distant brain, like the configurations of words couldn't possibly be part of me. The odd thing is, the threads are always the same. Each string still attached to it's original place, stretching for miles and miles, wrapped around organs, tangled and knotted. A map that expands from past to present and beyond. Every string bears my signature, some version of my stamp, whispering softly, "you've been here before". It's a delightful discovery to have space between my brain and it's maze of strings and words - to come back later and see them standing alone - like statues in a garden. Tiny poems born of raw feelings, waiting to be remembered.

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