The rice sat on the plate, untouched.
The curry tasted salt-less, uncooked even.
Solitude was bearable, but loneliness was scary.
Nostalgia left a bitter after-taste, no mouthwash could remove it.
If only time could be bribed.
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Writing to me is therapy, it frightens and comforts at the same time. Liberates like nothing else. A book in my own name is a dream, but a bigger dream would be to write something that haunts the reader even after the last page is turned and the book is shut. I enjoy reading and music, spending time with family whilst battling my social awkwardness.
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