I can say the things that I want to say
But they don't mean anything anyway,
I want the words and the words want me,
This isn't my story,
is it, is it?
This isn't my hole, and this isn't my glory.
This isn't my trunk and this isn't my key
Nor the beginning nor end of me.

I am always like this, all the time, neither voiced nor voiceless, hanging on.

<<agé chose>>

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