Minnetonka High School Issue #12: WINTER 2024
MUSE Magazine 2024 Edited by Silas Srnec Advised by Tara Charlton All works featured are original contributions from Minnetonka High School students. Powered by Marq
Kaleb Flores Rekaa Gomez Elizabeth Reed
4 5-8 9-13 14 15-18 19-21 22 23 24-26
Writing
Table of Contents
Lara Aksan Salma Ali Clara Curry Alexander Kim Elizabeth Reed Heidi Reimer Toby Unglaub Addison Volbrecht Sophia Zhang
22-28 29-36 37-40
Art
Lara Aksan
Kitten on a cafe bench
An Ocean of Fabrics
Salma Ali
girl is a gun
Juliet.
When you realize you forgot the food in the microwave
Clara Curry
Alexander Kim
Godzilla does a sick dunk on a shark but not really cause Godzilla is like 7 times the height of the hoop! He goes on to reveal the 6 essential tips for a perfect body, Doctors hate him!!!!
Elizabeth Reed
Whitepine
To sully/To Defile
Null Uroboros
Consequences
Heidi Reimer
Toby Unglaub
The Greenhouse
Addison Volbrecht
Stained Heart
Sophia Zhang
Holding the line was usually trivial. Standing above a trench and stopping a charge is one thing, but when you have to hold back a riot? Things become more complicated. Hammer, upon arrival, quickly decided that he didn't like riots. As it turns out, a drone that's two stories tall and twenty-five tons isn’t greatly suited for the tight inner city streets, nor for avoiding the people in them. One upside to the situation was that most people didn’t want to mess with such a titan, which suited him just fine. A brick to the chassis roused him. After spotting and designating the aggressor, a beanbag round struck him from above in the night sky, courtesy of ORCA. Some time later, a particular drone opened up a comms channel with him. “Hammer. Shift change with Stingray. You are needed by civil guards at the designated point.” Phantom cut the line before he could respond, but sure enough, a marker appeared on Hammer’s personal map. Moments later, he heard something heavily tap his chassis. Hammer spun his chassis at the waist, and found Stingray just behind him. “Alright,” he said, “My turn now.” “Be my guest,” he replied, walking backwards to allow Stingray to fill his role in line. He swiveled back around, and watched in real time as Stingray's reputation preceded him. It seemed that almost a decade of service and media coverage would do that for a drone. Within an instant, crowd stopped throwing thing, although there truly wasn’t a way to quiet them Hammer nodded to himself, and turned around to start walking. As working street lights became fewer and further between, and large debris became more common, he resorted to his floodlights. As he continued down the various streets, ORCA suddenly came over the fireteam’s open line, “Some civil guards have seen armed civilians and mechs stomping around, so I’m escalating this from hazard level four to two.” Sunfish was the one to ask, “Gotcha, how should we proceed?” ORCA marked a portion of the map that was shared between the group. “It’s complicated with civilians, but even with a level two threat, let them stand down before you shoot. They’re insurgents otherwise.” The others agreed, and the line went dead. Hammer broke into a run, the ground shaking with each step. According to Legion, stormtroopers didn’t like the sight of a sprinting Hammer. As he neared, Hammer began to hear gunfire, confirming ORCA's statement. Finally, he reached the street that Phantom marked. Taking a left, he saw what warranted a class two hazard level. Far down the street, a unit of civil guards was being attacked. Leading the pack was a civilian mech facing away from him. It looked extremely similar to the one used by the City Space Division, but this one was larger and meaner Hammer entered another run, but the walker seemed not to notice until it was too late. He hit it, and sent it flying. He quickly got between a group of civil guards and their aggressors, yelling to the latter, “Please stop! I promise that you do not want to be marked as insurgents!” Before he could ask again, Hammer was hit on his left by a shell, shocking him off balance. Something large body checked him shortly after, making him stumble backwards. When he recovered, he was impressed to find that it was the walker. They came face to optic, and stopped. The pilot yelled, “So you’re Hammer?! Legendary bunker on legs?!” Hammer replied cheerily, “That's right! And who are you?” “The one who’s finally gonna take you down!” he yelled. His voice was filled with so much confidence that Hammer almost wished him good luck. He warned the man, “Hey, look, unless you surrender, I can’t go easy on you.” The walker brought its left arm up and fired, before dashing backwards. The pilot yelled, “Save your pity for another!” He stared intently at the cloud of smoke, only for it to clear and reveal the undamaged form of Hammer. “Very well. At least I gave you a warning,” he replied dejectedly. The pilot fired again, and attempted to dash to the right. However, Hammer had other plans, his shell immediately tore its way through the walker's left shoulder, ripping it off. Despite the damage, the walker persisted. Hammer gave it no reprieve as he charged, slamming it with his cannon and knocking it away. Hammer approached the machine, taking off a leg with a plasma burst when it tried to crawl away. Soon, he was standing over it. “Please, surrender,” he pleaded. The pilot spat through his cracked visor, “Damn… clanker.” Hammer sighed, not bothering to respond. With a swift motion, he flipped his right gun forward, and brought his blades down on the cockpit.
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Kaleb Flores
He quickly got between a group of civil guards and their aggressors, yelling to the latter, “Please stop! I promise that you do not want to be marked as insurgents!” Before he could ask again, Hammer was hit on his left by a shell, shocking him off balance. Something large body checked him shortly after, making him stumble backwards. When he recovered, he was impressed to find that it was the walker. They came face to optic, and stopped. The pilot yelled, “So you’re Hammer?! Legendary bunker on legs?!” Hammer replied cheerily, “That's right! And who are you?” “The one who’s finally gonna take you down!” he yelled. His voice was filled with so much confidence that Hammer almost wished him good luck. He warned the man, “Hey, look, unless you surrender, I can’t go easy on you.” The walker brought its left arm up and fired, before dashing backwards. The pilot yelled, “Save your pity for another!” He stared intently at the cloud of smoke, only for it to clear and reveal the undamaged form of Hammer. “Very well. At least I gave you a warning,” he replied dejectedly. The pilot fired again, and attempted to dash to the right. However, Hammer had other plans, his shell immediately tore its way through the walker's left shoulder, ripping it off. Despite the damage, the walker persisted. Hammer gave it no reprieve as he charged, slamming it with his cannon and knocking it away. Hammer approached the machine, taking off a leg with a plasma burst when it tried to crawl away. Soon, he was standing over it. “Please, surrender,” he pleaded. The pilot spat through his cracked visor, “Damn… clanker.” Hammer sighed, not bothering to respond. With a swift motion, he flipped his right gun forward, and brought his blades down on the cockpit.
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Rekaa Gomez
Gentle flicks. Airy grace. Her body sways, left then right. A soft smile is on her face when she chaînés. Her hands held loosely at her waist, counting the time. She pauses, turning to the side; a breath of fresh air. Her torso turns, leaning to the other side. She bends her knees gently, lifting into the air with grace, her legs turned out and straight. Her heart is racing yet it feels at peace. She belongs here. Time and time again, she comes here. After a long day at work, after tiring meetings. Her blazer is shrugged off, as she leans down to undo her heels. Sliding them off, she massages her feet before standing straight. Loosening her belt, she stretches. Tendu, plié, one after another. Her shoulder makes a small click as she leans back, stretching out the knots. It’s been a while. She uses no music besides the sounds in her head, in her heart. She has a young energy despite her weariness throughout the day. She pushes the bar away, settling in front of the mirror. In it she sees who she wants to be. The practice room fades away, and she is left instead with a stage. She runs into the center elegantly, barely even running. Her torso is leaned back, her hands are posed at the left, her feets are crossing in front of each other fast. She pauses, her feet landing into her favorite position- fifth. She pliés gently, then recovers. Her right arm comes up, arcing overhead creating a rainbow of light. Her left hand grabs her right, a harsh hold, yet soft all the same. She attempts to bring her right arm down, her face contorting with the motion she is pushing. She wants to keep going. She keeps her arms like that, and she dances. One foot in front of the other, she turns gently. Once. She steps forward, her left leg arcing into a fan, almost meeting her arms. It falls, and she does as well. Before she meets the ground, she catches herself; her left leg on pointe, her right extended into an arabesque. She freezes. In the outside world, someone appears at the door of the studio. He is drained. Tired. Almost the same as she is, yet even then, both of them might never meet. His footsteps echo gently through the halls, and despite there being no music to guide him, his heart immediately knows. He stops, in front of the door, pausing at the sight of her. His hand leans forward involuntarily, and he moves to stop it. Yet just like the girl, he is unable to. One foot in front of the other, he turns it gently. Once. He steps inside, his work bag dropping to the floor as he meets her. They are on stage, together. His hand reaches up, covering hers. Her eyes fall shut, a tear dripping down. She feels as if she is imagining it, but he knows it is real. He dips her, and she falls with a smile, before coming back up. Starved for the air that is within their souls, they dance. He spins her, his hand still holding hers. She leaps away, but he chases after. Her hands eventually fall free, and before she can even get stuck again, he is there for her. Strangers in person, soulmates at heart. She flies high, and so does he. But when they meet, it's neither high nor low. It is where it truly needs to be. And when the night ends, they'll return to their weary selves, the dances of the nights not forgotten, but stored away. They will curtsy to each other, and part ways. But fate will lead them together again as it so often does. Together, in an unwritten harmony. No music but the sounds of their heart, their souls. Not balanced, just, right. The ever present music of their soul guiding them. Not quite a heart beat. More so, a soul beat.
She flies high, and so does he. But when they meet, it's neither high nor low. It is where it truly needs to be. And when the night ends, they'll return to their weary selves, the dances of the nights not forgotten, but stored away. They will curtsy to each other, and part ways. But fate will lead them together again as it so often does. Together, in an unwritten harmony. No music but the sounds of their heart, their souls. Not balanced, just, right. The ever present music of their soul guiding them. Not quite a heart beat. More so, a soul beat.
Breathe in Breathe out Today is a new day. You must prove that it is a good day The flower on the window sill is wilting its colors less vibrant Pitiful. Almost as if they are sliding off the flower. Melting melting, like the heart of ice. Her heart is ice. It used to be warm. Breathe in. Breathe out Her heart used to be electric, now, It is ice. Frozen. In time. She holds the flower, just barely. Her two fingertips lifting it up. She breathes the last little bit of life she has in herself. Into the flower. again, she gives. without anything in return. The heart inside of her crackles a bit. She balks, in fear. She can not be warm. Breathe in Breathe out Her heart attempts to freeze. Her body attempts to be heartless. Breathe in Breathe out But she can’t. It’s not who she is. She is the flower. Holding up another flower. She has a heart, broken, yes. Even then, she will give, and give give give give. Breathe in Breathe out Until there is nothing left to give. She has been wilted, floating in the wind. Breathe in Breathe out Someone, With a broken, Sad soul but a Happy personality. Breathe in Breathe out She is a wilted flower. A wallflower. Ever present, but never, receiving. Only, giving. As she repeats her mantra ”Breathe in.” ”Breathe out”
The heart inside of her crackles a bit. She balks, in fear. She can not be warm. Breathe in Breathe out Her heart attempts to freeze. Her body attempts to be heartless. Breathe in Breathe out But she can’t. It’s not who she is. She is the flower. Holding up another flower. She has a heart, broken, yes. Even then, she will give, and give give give give. Breathe in Breathe out Until there is nothing left to give. She has been wilted, floating in the wind. Breathe in Breathe out Someone, With a broken, Sad soul but a Happy personality. Breathe in Breathe out She is a wilted flower. A wallflower. Ever present, but never, receiving. Only, giving. As she repeats her mantra ”Breathe in.” ”Breathe out”
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floating in the wind. Breathe in Breathe out Someone, With a broken, Sad soul but a Happy personality. Breathe in Breathe out She is a wilted flower. A wallflower. Ever present, but never, receiving. Only, giving. As she repeats her mantra ”Breathe in.” ”Breathe out”
In the depths of night, a stranger saved her. The saviour bears no name, nor a physical body. She knows not what they look like, how they talk. Her only picture of them comes from how they visualize the person inside of their head. No words were spoken when they saved her. None were needed. She heard nothing before this. Pure silence. From the exterior world at the very least. Inside, it was loud. The internal world an inferno of movement, fire, chaos and sound. Voices echoed throughout the chamber that is her soul, and she is tugged from either side. “Don’t let go.” Her mind attempts to bring peace to her broken soul, using logic as a guide. But the body can only do so much when the soul is fragmented, split and tired in the way it is. A tone so loud it clangs on the walls of her soul, she falls to her knees in the external world. The matters of the internal are not revealed to the external, so as her knees bleed, she is asked, not if she needs quiet; but rather, “Do you need a bandaid?” Can a bandaid fix the fragments of her soul? Can they restore what has been wholly lost and broken time and time again? In the external, she will shake her head. Frantically. Her body trembles and more blood spills from her knees. It goes silent for a while. She pulls herself to her feet, giving her a chance to breathe. A nod of thanks; and a brief shake of hands. She walks away. No bandaid could fix her. Her legs feel heavy, the blood continuing to stream a river, but she felt no pain from the large injury. With the look of a zombie, she pushes further, going through the motions of life, but if anyone looked at her external deep enough, they would see that she wasn’t really living anymore. Her fingers run through her hair, twisting once, twice. Her lip bleeds red, the broken flesh chipping away like wood. It’s the eyes. It’s the eyes that get the stranger's attention. Eyes that could be so colourful, so full of the inferno of her internal. Eyes that have lost all sense of direction, gazing up at the stars; believing the stars are stepping stones. A fury of browns and oranges, colors ever present, blending together to hold someone's secrets. The stranger pushes a little further, critiquing. The clinical-like watch of eyes feeds over her skin, and she barely notices. Her body shivers, sensing the presence; but from where? And who? What is happening, where is she? Who is she? The internal begins to get louder. The screaming builds and builds. A pressure within her chest she's never known before. Pain fills through her body, shooting her like medical needles. Her head feels heavy. A throbbing fills her chest, starting with her breast. A second sensation, reminiscent of pulling, fills her ass. Places she's been touched. Another spreads, this pinching, thrusting and violating, fills her most sensitive places. Her ears tingle, and her fingers thrum. Tapping a simple beat, trying to redirect her attention. Tap. Ta-ta-tap. Again and again. The voices get louder, some comforting, most disconcerting. They yell and they scream, she begs, “Help me.” No one hears. No one sees what occurs in the internal. No one, but the stranger. The act of saving wasn't monumental. There was nothing to it than more than a few seconds. The saviour had ventured into the internal. She has no clue to how they got there. No one should be able to enter someone else's internal, much less a stranger’s. She has no idea how she got there, how does she know where they came from? The stranger didn’t acknowledge her fear. Didn’t acknowledge her pain. They went straight to the voices, and with a slap, the mouths fell to the ground. She doesn’t remember who has said what, where those voices came from. She doesn't remember the jeer from when she was five, telling her “You’re just fat.” She doesn’t recognize the line, “No one wants to be friends with people like you anyways.” Her heart thrums with life, a mellow hum, as she stares at the mouths. They choke not on air, but on life. The words to the all too familiar line, “She’s not even good enough,” die before finishing too far ahead, leaving her own mind to fill in the blanks. Slap after slap, the mouths fall to the ground. Her heart thrums ever so faster with every slap. The saviour reaches through the mountain of the hurting voices, and extends a hand. It reaches around for a while, searching a little more. She watches from afar, but makes no movement to go closer; to help them find what they are looking for. Her biggest secret is hers alone. She cannot move, her external frozen as this inferno within her cools. The voices that are present are the ones she created herself. Her own voices. The mouths move, uttering words of comfort and safety. Her mind is filled with a numbness only familiar when one is in the safest place they feel. When has she last felt this way? She turns her head to the saviour, the pain in her chest is gone. The saviour kneels on the ground of her soul, holding in his hands the parts of her she gave up. The strangers' steps towards her are tentative, measured and calculated. Her mind tells her to back up, to run away; but in the internal, she will forever be planted in the one spot. She begs, “Help me.” The stranger nods. Their hands meet, and slowly, he hands her back every piece of her she lost. They do it gently. Taking the fragments of the soul she had buried away for eternity, and sewing them back into place. Her hope is stitched into her eyes, the colors of her iris’s filling with a spark unseen in a lifetime. Her peace, to the shoulder where she was grabbed harshly, so tightly it left a mark. Passion, in her hands, that she tried to hide for fear. Compassion, in her breast, a reminder that her child will not face the coldness of a mother like she had. Joy in her sensitive places, to fall in love with her sensuality and the person she is. Gratitude, within her ass, to appreciate the challenges she sat through, and the healing that came from the wait. Esteem, in her feet; a reminder that she is a human, and can take measures against those who hurt her. The thread the stranger used was nothing more than love, a different idea of hope. Proof that she is worth loving, and worth the effort. The stranger makes no sound, only strokes a hand through her hair, fixing it. The saviour adjusts her clothing, giving her armour, when she has none. Without another word, they are gone; disappeared into the external. She didn’t know how. She didn’t know why. Her external woke up, and she found herself in front of a mirror. Her mouth filled with a light salt, but not from blood, from her tears. Her hands wipe them away gently, and a smile curves on her lips. Her fingers trace her self, the person she hasn’t seen in years. She has no name, and neither does her saviour. Her eyes burn with renewed hope, the colors brighter than before. The inferno no longer pains her, it fuels her. It took her years, she doesn’t even recognize the woman she has become. She knows the pain she experienced, the scars still etched into her skin and bones. This time, she doesn’t look at her reflection in shame. Her gaze is held evenly with herself. An overwhelming amount of weight no longer weighs on her. She is who she needs to be. She is where she needs to be. She has saved herself. Everything will be okay.
The internal begins to get louder. The screaming builds and builds. A pressure within her chest she's never known before. Pain fills through her body, shooting her like medical needles. Her head feels heavy. A throbbing fills her chest, starting with her breast. A second sensation, reminiscent of pulling, fills her ass. Places she's been touched. Another spreads, this pinching, thrusting and violating, fills her most sensitive places. Her ears tingle, and her fingers thrum. Tapping a simple beat, trying to redirect her attention. Tap. Ta-ta-tap. Again and again. The voices get louder, some comforting, most disconcerting. They yell and they scream, she begs, “Help me.” No one hears. No one sees what occurs in the internal. No one, but the stranger. The act of saving wasn't monumental. There was nothing to it than more than a few seconds. The saviour had ventured into the internal. She has no clue to how they got there. No one should be able to enter someone else's internal, much less a stranger’s. She has no idea how she got there, how does she know where they came from? The stranger didn’t acknowledge her fear. Didn’t acknowledge her pain. They went straight to the voices, and with a slap, the mouths fell to the ground. She doesn’t remember who has said what, where those voices came from. She doesn't remember the jeer from when she was five, telling her “You’re just fat.” She doesn’t recognize the line, “No one wants to be friends with people like you anyways.” Her heart thrums with life, a mellow hum, as she stares at the mouths. They choke not on air, but on life. The words to the all too familiar line, “She’s not even good enough,” die before finishing too far ahead, leaving her own mind to fill in the blanks. Slap after slap, the mouths fall to the ground. Her heart thrums ever so faster with every slap. The saviour reaches through the mountain of the hurting voices, and extends a hand. It reaches around for a while, searching a little more. She watches from afar, but makes no movement to go closer; to help them find what they are looking for. Her biggest secret is hers alone. She cannot move, her external frozen as this inferno within her cools. The voices that are present are the ones she created herself. Her own voices. The mouths move, uttering words of comfort and safety. Her mind is filled with a numbness only familiar when one is in the safest place they feel. When has she last felt this way? She turns her head to the saviour, the pain in her chest is gone. The saviour kneels on the ground of her soul, holding in his hands the parts of her she gave up. The strangers' steps towards her are tentative, measured and calculated. Her mind tells her to back up, to run away; but in the internal, she will forever be planted in the one spot. She begs, “Help me.” The stranger nods. Their hands meet, and slowly, he hands her back every piece of her she lost. They do it gently. Taking the fragments of the soul she had buried away for eternity, and sewing them back into place. Her hope is stitched into her eyes, the colors of her iris’s filling with a spark unseen in a lifetime. Her peace, to the shoulder where she was grabbed harshly, so tightly it left a mark. Passion, in her hands, that she tried to hide for fear. Compassion, in her breast, a reminder that her child will not face the coldness of a mother like she had. Joy in her sensitive places, to fall in love with her sensuality and the person she is. Gratitude, within her ass, to appreciate the challenges she sat through, and the healing that came from the wait. Esteem, in her feet; a reminder that she is a human, and can take measures against those who hurt her. The thread the stranger used was nothing more than love, a different idea of hope. Proof that she is worth loving, and worth the effort. The stranger makes no sound, only strokes a hand through her hair, fixing it. The saviour adjusts her clothing, giving her armour, when she has none. Without another word, they are gone; disappeared into the external. She didn’t know how. She didn’t know why. Her external woke up, and she found herself in front of a mirror. Her mouth filled with a light salt, but not from blood, from her tears. Her hands wipe them away gently, and a smile curves on her lips. Her fingers trace her self, the person she hasn’t seen in years. She has no name, and neither does her saviour. Her eyes burn with renewed hope, the colors brighter than before. The inferno no longer pains her, it fuels her. It took her years, she doesn’t even recognize the woman she has become. She knows the pain she experienced, the scars still etched into her skin and bones. This time, she doesn’t look at her reflection in shame. Her gaze is held evenly with herself. An overwhelming amount of weight no longer weighs on her. She is who she needs to be. She is where she needs to be. She has saved herself. Everything will be okay.
The strangers' steps towards her are tentative, measured and calculated. Her mind tells her to back up, to run away; but in the internal, she will forever be planted in the one spot. She begs, “Help me.” The stranger nods. Their hands meet, and slowly, he hands her back every piece of her she lost. They do it gently. Taking the fragments of the soul she had buried away for eternity, and sewing them back into place. Her hope is stitched into her eyes, the colors of her iris’s filling with a spark unseen in a lifetime. Her peace, to the shoulder where she was grabbed harshly, so tightly it left a mark. Passion, in her hands, that she tried to hide for fear. Compassion, in her breast, a reminder that her child will not face the coldness of a mother like she had. Joy in her sensitive places, to fall in love with her sensuality and the person she is. Gratitude, within her ass, to appreciate the challenges she sat through, and the healing that came from the wait. Esteem, in her feet; a reminder that she is a human, and can take measures against those who hurt her. The thread the stranger used was nothing more than love, a different idea of hope. Proof that she is worth loving, and worth the effort. The stranger makes no sound, only strokes a hand through her hair, fixing it. The saviour adjusts her clothing, giving her armour, when she has none. Without another word, they are gone; disappeared into the external. She didn’t know how. She didn’t know why. Her external woke up, and she found herself in front of a mirror. Her mouth filled with a light salt, but not from blood, from her tears. Her hands wipe them away gently, and a smile curves on her lips. Her fingers trace her self, the person she hasn’t seen in years. She has no name, and neither does her saviour. Her eyes burn with renewed hope, the colors brighter than before. The inferno no longer pains her, it fuels her. It took her years, she doesn’t even recognize the woman she has become. She knows the pain she experienced, the scars still etched into her skin and bones. This time, she doesn’t look at her reflection in shame. Her gaze is held evenly with herself. An overwhelming amount of weight no longer weighs on her. She is who she needs to be. She is where she needs to be. She has saved herself. Everything will be okay.
Everything passes “Everything” could be A people A thing A time No matter what Everything will pass Pass is a subjective word, really. It can mean die or just go I truly think it depends on your passion perception outlook whatever. Whatever makes you you You. You see them. They struggle. You see their struggle. You are powerless to stop their struggle They die They burn They bleed They’re hurt and you just watch. “You” is a funny word it’s personal it’s odd, really. le:///Users/tcharlto/Downloads/dropbox_23862733_r1(2).html1/3 2/4/25,2:49PMdropbox_23862733_r1(2).html Everything is interesting. There are so many things to see in your life. You. You watch as life goes by as other lives go by you can read their stories or listen but you will still learn even if it is hard. And you now see you, of all people as they die they burn they hurt they bleed And you are powerless. You. Yourself. People have said it in different ways in different tongues, voices, languages. There is always a word for the other but that other sees the world through their own eyes. You. You are still powerless to stop them from hurting from burning from dying Just as much as I am. As we all are. le:///Users/tcharlto/Downloads/dropbox_23862733_r1(2).html2/3 2/4/25, 2:49 PM dropbox_23862733_r1 (2).html It’s unfortunate But alas People live, love, bring joy, feel joy, revive And even if it hurts it burns you bleed it kills you, The world makes itself anew.
You are powerless to stop their struggle They die They burn They bleed They’re hurt and you just watch. “You” is a funny word it’s personal it’s odd, really. Everything is interesting. There are so many things to see in your life. You. You watch as life goes by as other lives go by you can read their stories or listen but you will still learn even if it is hard. And you now see you, of all people as they die they burn they hurt they bleed And you are powerless. You. Yourself. People have said it in different ways in different tongues, voices, languages. There is always a word for the other but that other sees the world through their own eyes. You. You are still powerless to stop them from hurting from burning from dying Just as much as I am. As we all are. le:///Users/tcharlto/Downloads/dropbox_23862733_r1(2).html2/3 2/4/25, 2:49 PM dropbox_23862733_r1 (2).html It’s unfortunate But alas People live, love, bring joy, feel joy, revive And even if it hurts it burns you bleed it kills you, The world makes itself anew.
you can read their stories or listen but you will still learn even if it is hard. And you now see you, of all people as they die they burn they hurt they bleed And you are powerless. You. Yourself. People have said it in different ways in different tongues, voices, languages. There is always a word for the other but that other sees the world through their own eyes. You. You are still powerless to stop them from hurting from burning from dying Just as much as I am. As we all are. le:///Users/tcharlto/Downloads/dropbox_23862733_r1(2).html2/3 2/4/25, 2:49 PM dropbox_23862733_r1 (2).html It’s unfortunate But alas People live, love, bring joy, feel joy, revive And even if it hurts it burns you bleed it kills you, The world makes itself anew.
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from burning from dying Just as much as I am. As we all are. It’s unfortunate But alas People live, love, bring joy, feel joy, revive And even if it hurts it burns you bleed it kills you, The world makes itself anew.