Call me naive. In the screamed privacy which is not such I renege of all to do with your memory, yet I'm unable to forget.
I wish I could make you dissapear... Is that what you felt when you were unable to reach me
I have to stop.
Now.
Or I'll die.
Ockham's blade did its job. You assumed, I did, end of the story of a self-announced prophecy
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