by: Aon L.W.
|this fault at which i fall. this commoness in which i claim. a summon of
the dark, a fracture of morale and of simplicity. these are the failures in
which we grieve. for this misery i crawl and forget the tortures of what
was left. the huge metal boxes leaving tastes in my mouth. a rusted seed,
planted on the face of humanity. for this i cry and for this i wept, but
never tears of the soul. i live to see life, and i kill to see death but i
never crossed the line. these numbers i will never see or be. to continue
ther ace of last rights and to give them a margin by which to travel. these
are the perfections i now sell my soul for. stains i care for, lives i've
died for, nothing and everything all at once... and this i can't feel. this
abrupt dealing. lay your head in lap of loneliness and rest your hate at
it's feet. this is the dying day. to keep fate at arms length, to concern
yourself with pride and to compete without the knowledge. here be stifle,
here be monsters...
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