The pain of knowing when something is wrong with your body is more than an evening hobby. You often find yourself in a hospital lobby sobbing your pending wake house trench collie.
You rack your mind with a spout of mental doubt. You say to yourself, you know it's fine because of the Jesus last supper wine holding your spine.
I think; however, you never feel as less clever than when you fear the hear of the medical healer.
I have a wish for you to not ever succumb to the train of mental pain beyond the drain of your delicate brain.
Written by: Patrick James Quaker
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