I feel that I’ll explode from the heat that burns within this inextinguishable crucible. There are no cookies, no lemon, nor cubes of sugar to complement this pot of tea that simmers to a maddening boil upon a flame of insanity. Here I sit; steam pours from outer layers that peel away my youth day after day until I’ve no idea if I’d rather cry, laugh, or become indifferent. Touch me, and you’ll burn. Avoid me, and I’ll weep. Still, I’m nothing but a whistling nuisance that no one wants to hear. Is my face red? I’m so damned hot.
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