Of what should have been me who gets to answer, has been me who had to ask. And I will not tell of my glory. Neither any of my falls. I am not an open book. And I sense that you got overwhelmed in a very crooked way. I am the log that got washed by the sea. And I am not cold but bloated. I stay for any creature to rest and make me shield, of the wave that washes the shells off shore. But I am a log. Those who don't examine will never know of me. And it stays that way. Welcoming to no restrictions, yet no intentions of speedy revelations.
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