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At the centre of my heart lies a great garden but that's not where I live. Down at the bottom I sit on a garden chair, in a dusty cabbin, hiding away. Secretly hoping that if I ignore them long enough the overgrown vines wont reach my lungs. With each breath they grow closer, announcing to anyone who'll listen a truth none but the hopeless want to know: About a dry garden that will never be watered and a soil that one day will never nurture life again. 19.04.22