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Rotting Yellow FeathersI am a canary, trapped within a large bell jar. No matter how much I try to fly on my weak wings constructed from hopes and dreams, I always hit the cold glass of reality. It is then that I fall back down again to lick my sorry wounds. Failure tastes like neatly preened feathers.
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And, despite the pain and the hurt, I always forget that the glass is there. Each day I start on a fresh wing, fresh flight, fresh ambition. But, every time, reality lurks with dark and bitter breath. Like countless days before, I fall. Like countless times before, I never learn. I never will.
I've seen other people, people who like me are birds