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■ The oak
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And pain, spreads over me,
as rust chewing from a scrap of metal, pouring acid in my vessels, evaporating life within me. And I begin to see flowers of the past, not withering, not dying but blossoming and dripping slices of memories, sharpened as a knife made of glass. Numbness slaps my face as heart is crushed on the weight of tombestones, that bear the name of my endless dreams. The colour of the doom wraps around me as a leech on a bleeding wound, and my eye stare in darkness as my vision flees away… one last drop of life anoints me, before I die, I stay awake.
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