Lie to me?

At one time I thought that I couldn’t love. At one time I felt that I would be alone. And I wondered why the books that I read were so set on some universal misery that I’d die, die alone, die without feeling completely alive. I wasn’t ever so sure of that till I cried in want, in need of some immaterial need. But often writers lie. We lie because we feel that the truth is never enough to satisfy what I want or really what you expect. So can I not help you by helping one person’s desire? It is not a pittance to wonder how such a feeling like love is universally felt at all. I dare not guess. I am no mathematician; I haven’t the slightest amour for that numerical relationship. Shall I indulge in that(?) save for a gluttonous delight or three.

Back to love and misery, I shan’t let these irrational sentiments rule me. Willy-nilly me I won’t give you the brownie here, or ever love. I’ll be selfishly selfish to keep this delight to myself, till it bursts out like flying penguins that rationally decided to fly on my command. But will this ever happen? Dear me, I suppose my silence is what you’ll hear for I’ve fled quicker than any flea that you might mishappenly try to be to me. Oh! Shall I toss little stuffed penguins off a nearby mountain to fake a penguin’s flight? Or shall I let you wonder what is happening to you and I? Shall I? Or Shall I do what?

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