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authorRunxi Yu <harriet@andrewyu.org>2023-08-29 00:00:00 +0000
committerRunxi Yu <harriet@andrewyu.org>2023-08-29 00:00:00 +0000
commitc8644d6c2fe7fc8b4fe4fff021d66e4e25a708cd (patch)
tree5d440a086b4c991f0992584963306488e74c2c0d /microblog/index.html
parent7a5fc0b374e11f88aaea182f2b7b79992d85350a (diff)
downloadwww-c8644d6c2fe7fc8b4fe4fff021d66e4e25a708cd.tar.gz
Maybe it’s being alive that makes them lie, and being almost not alive makes me sort of accidentally truthful… —Brick, Act 3, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, by Tennessee Williams
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+		Maybe it's being alive that makes them lie, and being almost not alive makes me sort of accidentally truthful...<br />
+&mdash;Brick, Act 3, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, by Tennessee Williams
+		<a href="https://www.andrewyu.org/microblog/#30">&</a>
+		</p>
+		<hr />
 		<p id="29">
 Looking back, reading opinions, journal entries and poems I wrote a while back, ranging from two years to a month ago. There’s something pinching and squeezing my heart. Candle smoke intoxicated my eyes, yet I still could not blow them out. Tears create craters on my dusty face. I need to have a rest, perhaps reflect on my experiences throughout the years. There will not be any sort of “new beginning”. History exists, reality is not romantic, and the apparent me of the present is responsible for the past.  The most destructive kind of feeling is not loneliness, not even guilt for other people. It’s my guilt towards the apparently innocent version of myself of the past.
 		<a href="https://www.andrewyu.org/microblog/#29">&</a>