Clichéd, But True.
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The lake's dark like always (like his thoughts).
He wants to throw himself in sometimes.
Or maybe not.
He doesn't know anymore.
He can see his breath hanging in the air in front of him.
If he looks hard he can see words form in the fog.
Every now and then a face (her face) looked up at him.
He hates these moments.
These weak moments.
But that's what he is.
Weak.
He can't change that.
Can never change that.
Or maybe…
Maybe he can?
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