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Now the truth is known, about the paths I carve deep inside, where nobody goes. Time is ticking slower than molasses. The simplest things take hours, the hardest, decades. The place where pain and regret are one in the same. They run ramped, squeezing themselves around and around. Tighter and tighter until there’s almost no room to breath, no room to move. And those paths grow deeper and deeper. Bleeding until there’s no more blood to be bled. And you’ll look at me and I’ll deny every word said.