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 perfection leaves no cause to persist
In searching leaving me longing for the day that finally smothers all hope
Infected limbs it is not the firing squad but the blindfold
That makes us tense loss of perfection leaves no cause to persist
In searching leaving me longing for the day that finally smothers all hope
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