Photo by Universal Eye on Unsplash

Paragraph’s III

I’m trapped and the moon, a vagabond dismisses any empathy it may have lit upon my person.

But even here in this innominate state, I still feel compelled to write to you and so I write across the awning of my tortured conscience.

I ponder if I will have any memory of what I write here; when I return (for I shall) will my words have become coloured…

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Rigópoula T Tsambounieris

In my spare time, I’ll be found at my favorite writing spot— where death surely cannot miss me. I’ve been censored... I do not tell—all.