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kjjjjjjj
Did you forget to edit out the last sentence lmao

Fuller
*possession* should be the word. a type error.

Fred Maia
se você tivesse acreditado na minha brincadeira de dizer verdades, teria ouvidoo verdades que teimo …

Spaces
Meanwhile, my true top WPM is around 75. But one error and my WPM shoots …

AnonFP
I got this quote while practicing typing in French, but it is in English.

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oculus's cotizaciones

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OCULUS - Empty Shoes
People - we're fond of our habits, and we are what we do repeatedly. If we could hold our lives without ourselves in them, we would see the bigger impact our smallest actions created. What is left in the shoes you filled when you move on? Does the mark of your deeds leave the world a little brighter, or stain your legacy black? If you would regret living every day the way you did yesterday, make habits you are proud of.

OCULUS - Direction
I don't drive. It's not because I'm terrible, I'm just new enough that I don't trust myself not to fail. Instead, I ride shotgun to life and watch the signs go by faster and faster. Sometimes I'm just glad to be going forward, and sometimes I scream and beg to pull over and be let off child lock. But I don't drive.

OCULUS - The Past is Not Past
People look at me weird when I say I don't see my hands the same way as they do. To me, the shape of the human hand is a reminder of our primal past and the world humans work so hard to separate themselves from today. A reminder that along the incredible path that has led to me being here, the quest for survival has slowly been worn down into something else entirely. The search for answers has shifted so many times that we forgot to answer the first question. Why are we doing all this anyway?

Rick Yancey - The Human Curse - Excerpt from The Monstrumologist
Perhaps that is our doom, our human curse, to never really know one another. We erect edifices in our minds about the flimsy framework of word and deed, mere totems of the true person, who, like the gods to whom the temples were built, remains hidden. We understand our own construct; we know our own theory; we love our own fabrication. Still... does the artifice of our affection make our love any less real?