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Gentle now, please.

The sentiment of keeping your pillows hugged tight at night.

The softness you accept of the rain against the glass of your window.

The generosity you grant to others in giving time, a shoulder.

The care you bestow upon your cat, when you barely tickle their chin.

So why do I still lie here as if my bed, adorned with flowers, softness, is but a stone cold slab?

Why do I not grant myself the sentiment, softness, generosity, care?

You speak so passionately of the troubles and ponderings of our time, yet never those that concern yourself.

You would rather remain a mystery, distracting yourself with the happenings and concerns of others.

So is your interest in fact, an avoidance of self-confrontation?

Whatever the reason, I can only but pathetically describe, I feel nothing but a warm body, hot mind.

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