Jan 11
If I exist in a different world,
Where do I go if it gets cold?
If I find sanctuary in sorrow,
Where do I go to rest? To cry?
Tis not a place for worries.
Worries die along with you
when you go. But only if it's
by another hand. My death
was by my own hands. My
own reckless, cheated,
heartbroken, hands filled
with calluses collected
from forgotten memories I
knew once before in a
life I'm glad to have forgotten. ?
-A Letter of Propaganda carried in the Wind
-.-- --- ..- / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -… . / -- .. … … . -.. --..-- / ..-. .-. .. . -. -.. .-.-.-
