Thrust forth into heaven one is delighted to find what one has already lost. Our minds have become so barren, inhabitants are demons so wrought.
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What to say is perhaps the hardest part, Throats parched as soon as one has to depart.
Ours is not a new sorrow, For even the saints of the pantheon, the kindred men that "suffered" bliss, The poltergeists that wreaked a pandemonium are all now amiss.
Like how "la dame sans merci" shed some holy drops when her beloved breathed his last, Like how a mother will imitate an infant when a son perishes at war. To leave is to uphold a mortal's imprecation that soothsayers have come to construe As natural as the cascading of the ocean blue.