Their laughter was like the stridulation of the ghosts of grasshoppers.
There is but a gentle stillness inside every cerebral. Tiny waterfalls of blood vessels rushing, becoming lethal.
The Macabre Masterpiece: Poems of Horror and Gore
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There is but a gentle stillness inside every cerebral. Tiny waterfalls of blood vessels rushing, becoming lethal.
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There is no light at the end of the tunnel for us. We are who we are.