How's weird this time, almost decomposed... that's way you feel alone and touched by your own death, while the dark is implanted inside you and you're slipping on your own tomb, as cold sweat on his forehead .... Even talking to stay caught in your own words. .... so that you remain silent, but still remain the same in the midst of this forest of questions, with twisted branches of desperation for answers that never arrive. And you lose, these questions, in the labyrinths of your mind, painfully touching each other, turning a knife in a wound that is always placed there, in your heart .... A pyre of smoke. And you there, but powerless wings implants ... Stay there, bear witness to their judgment, as always, and every time you drop emptier, until one day shall not come down more ... You'll be buried under this mountain of questions, followed by the Eye. That Eye that fixed you as held, you will find anywhere and condemnation in the same way, and you feel like a mark on your body tired and ragged. UNTIL THE DAY HOT STONE SHINE. And you share all over again, with the flesh still burning, smelling to ashes and embers. Raise your head and look at the sky resting on the sky, a hostage of himself, and think that... also you have learned your grave in memory, living in the prison of your own destiny. But your only thought is to don't let people understand your emotion like a claw stuck in the throat, every time you feel a beat what is left of your heart so sorely tried. And do you wrap like an armor from shell, which leaves no longer penetrate the Eye, but, oh, EVEN SMALL HAPPINESS....
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