The letters were lost. Yet here I am contemplating the sins. Sins that I have never committed. Yet I see myself upon them, ever so often. Knitting and splitting each and every letter and empty spaces--Spaces that were never empty--binding them with time. Those were the ones whispering, from a distant time-space dichotomy.
Grim The flower grew within, the fumes were fornicated. Bastards grew on paper, spilt ink spread their legs to the core of chaos. Thus the evil brewed bombs. You don’t see a shadow on a dark, docile day. Only when it burns you can see your damned skin and the fire. The shadow of a truth turning all grey, sat by the yellow-mellow day!
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