10100
He has been running his hole life now. With knifes on his back, spit on his face, thorns in his feet, bullets mixed with shards of glass in his heart, a load on his sholders and open woonds all over, periodicly sprinkled with salt, he still runs. His between running to something and running from something. He hopes that if fate says to keep on going forever, that God might shed mercy and let him not run alone. None the less his will screams to run and so he keeps running. Allowing his heart to point the way... The mirror tells no lies.
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