tonight's exercise: i'm supposed to be a goat with what i think to be a fatal wound from the thorn of a honey locust. all alone in the woods, i find a twig and dip it in my blood to write my finals words.
to my fellow goats:
aren't you glad we weren't born sheep? first i wanna say that i never thought it would end like this. even goats want a glorious death but life has a way of disguising thorns and thus, my fatal injury. life was pretty amazing. i say that because despite all the bad i went through, none of it killed me which only leaves me to focus on the good. i loved a good goat at a bad time. in fact, i loved a few. it taught me the emptiness of not loving at all was a void i'm glad i never had to fill. and now as i lay here, on a makeshift deathbed, the most important thing is this: love is immortal even when it bleeds.
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