Terminally infected limbs
It is not the firing squad, but the blindfold that makes us tense
Loss of perfections leaves no cause to persist in searching
Leaving me longing for the day that finally smothers all hope
The trivial little things left in your wake are beloved Terminally infected limbs It is not the firing squad, but the blindfold that makes us tense Loss of perfections leaves no cause to persist in searching Leaving me longing for the day that finally smothers all hope Explain Request ×
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