Three hundred and sixty-five days. Fifty-two weeks. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. My days are turning into a routine. Morning. Shower and eat. Day. Read and write. Night. Eat and write and sleep. Everything is a blur. I'm wasting a way. I need more adventures in my life. I'm going to do something about it. I miss my friends. I miss dressing up, drinking and going out with them.
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