Death is a gentleman in a weathered trench coat. His sunglasses shield his burning eyes. The ample holes in his shoe take in spare souls, who have wallowed in their meths misery. Death has no fear of subways or crossroads. His mission is too precise, conjurer of tricks repenters can never work it off. He licks his lips with each given soliloquy Those are the tastiest of souls and before you know it you're hitchhiking to the West is his way
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Imagination fires the soul, resolution the longing.
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