I am writing my book of life, not knowing how to pen the next line.
And the effort to secrete more brain juices to find out the solution just erupts my tear ducts.
This portion of my book certainly isn't the most exciting; neither its climax.
It is, instead, the most mundane scene.
One that perhaps is full of dialogues, thoughts, and repetitive events which is followed by a myriad of questions that remain unanswered.
I don't know how to quit these feelings.
I don't know how not to worry.
I may not even know how to move on.
I am waiting for the true author to tell me how to write on.
where is the faith?!
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