#28

I hate saying it, how I loathe saying it. The uneasiness increases the closer I get to saying it. It is mere poison, it is deceptive.

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Parks himself on the foot of the stairs, waves pumping through the ears while he ponders certain uncertainties. The light comes in through this transparent window and burns. Oh it burns. The door opens. Oh it's cold.

It burns, it burns. It's cold, it's cold.