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He wrote a song.He wrote one for me.

Music was HIS thing. He conveyed his feelings, every single one of them through songs. Some of them were his songs, and some of them were the ones we hear on the radio. Yes, he wrote songs and gave them to me. He wrote songs just to show how much he meant to me. Yet they never came out of his mouth. Rarely. On special occasions it did. But Music was HIS thing.  He played numerous instruments and wanted to learn so much more. He adored it. It was his passion. And it was never good enough for him. He always wanted more.He always wanted to ‘get better’, even if he was the most brilliant musician ive ever seen. He was never satisfied with his talent. Never. His words flowed like water on to his books as he scribbled down lyrics. He had one book, where he wrote everything. His songs, how he felt about me, Everything. To me, it was everything. He was.Everything.

 

Yours truly,

Painted Shadow

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Author:

I stare at walls hoping that something would guide me to another dimension where everything makes sense. I take life as it comes. I reside in which is now known to be the fastest growing city in the Middle East, Dubai. Surrounded by fake greenery and dusty air, I long for rain. I long for rain to drench my very being, untill i feel nothing but clean and revived. I dream of happy things and i know for certain that Peter pan and pixies and fairies and Santa exists. I know. Because theres no point in not believing. Im a child. I am a grain of sand. I am a speckle of dust in this polluted world. I am a spirit roaming the end of the earth, trying to find that wall. (Read the page Painted shadow for details)

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