Lies wound; truths festoon.

The hurt refuse to chart their part.

Friends aren’t inert to hurt.

The wise surmise hidden cries.

Silence is a form of violence.

Love wanes shame.

The lame blame, the hurt blurt, the mad rag.

Those who don’t fulfill their potential rise up against those who do.

Hurt remains, deposited in memory.

The utterly crushed are like animals caught in a trap; they bite even those who try to help them escape.

The hurt run from disaster; love runs after them faster.

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