My Time

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Everywhere I go. What ever I see. No matter when, no matter where. "Close." Your Eyes. You'll be here soon. That word. That cursed, unholy word. I wish to erase that word from existence. The opening note of "bo en - my time" from album "Pale Machine" has been etched into my very existence. I am disgusted by it. I am depressed by it. I am terrified of it. I am exhausted of it. I wallow in despair, knowing that if I do anything, it will follow me. You can run, but you can't hide. "Close." "Your eyes." It is simply astounding how one word can set a person off like this. I will destroy this madness. I can't destroy the concept of "close your eyes." Every time I blink. Every time I use a door. Every time a store goes past its business hours. Every time I read a book. Close. Clothes. Every time I touch, see, hear, or feel fabric. Close. The sound comes into mind. There is no escape. It has been etched into my soul, and soon yours. Learn to dread it. Do not accept it. Do not "close" this message. Repeat that note, over and over and over, in your mind. Twist it, turn it, distort it, dissect it, study it, analyze it. "Close." Think about it. Consider it. Ponder it. Dread it. Run from it. "Close." It's there. And the next time you close anything, be it a door or this page. It will be there too. Best of luck.

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