Published on Tue, 24th Mar 2026 at 23:35
Death, the sharpest knife; in brilliance, it defines us. Venerated, so many a night, yet leaning from my sight, its silent veil flails around this heart of wasted time. Morn catches a hopeful sun the moon has yet to forgive; what of it? what of me? The sharpest knife reclaimed?
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