[ Death has a signature that's both impossible to mistake and impossible to succinctly describe. It waits in the corners of the house you thought you knew, it catches you mid-step on a busy metropolitan sidewalk. It stalks with static strides, in blooms of instinct millennia old, in years that feel like yesterday. It walks with you into a dream, and it waits for you to awaken, or to not awaken. To acknowledge, or to not.
He knows. He knows, he knows. This is his language. This connection blurs faintly at the edges with it. ]
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He knows. He knows, he knows. This is his language. This connection blurs faintly at the edges with it. ]
Did you arrive with yours?