Faint . . . a whisper, a word that beckons me so softly. Handful of complaints . . . a jury condemns me to a hell I’ve tasted briefly before. Broken . . . a lonely soul on a boulevard, all alone watching. Nonsense . . . all that is made, by my hands I fall. Time . . . won’t heal damage once ignored - can’t ease the pain that blooms. Luck . . . that
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