Without knowing what it is to die, I am left with very little to say.
Is one a savage if bodies killed in the crash of war are not mutilated?
Can one be a Monster if they do not abuse their children?
The meanings of words are polluted and obscured.
My thoughts leave the woman I love, for a moment, to fixate upon
some simpler tasks. Perhaps a condemnation of my father,
or someone who wrote a bad book, once.
My dear, the wine turns quickly to vinegar.
If you will not have things one way, will you accept the other?
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