I took a lot of traits from my mother, so you must be like yours. Although, you never talk about her. I wish you did. History would give us a good sense of where we came from. Licking old wounds that were set into me by my ancestors. I feel them inside of me when I rage. When I speak of death, I mean, shedding an old life. An old way. Thousands of years of conditioning. I speak about the root of the problem, but they just want to see the flower. Glory is shed. In this garden I will not grow. Let the seeds of my imagination be planted in richer soil. The color grows from the darkest flesh; my soul.

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