One, two, three, one, two, three, drink

There’s a scene in a Netflix show. Every time I watch it, I am wiping my tears and fail to hold feelings that grow ineffably from inside. I am so eager to curl up in the abandoned corner, no matter it’s the mental prison or the acoustic fence built from my heavily occupied playlist. I know. Something devoured the phony me, or perhaps, swollen. And then, the times of my young self, the ever never past sediments of my loneliness, are stirred up above, breaking into happy sore tears.

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