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"...he came out of nowhere, always a friend of the victim at the slaughter of the innocents."

Rosa_Electa is Offline

   

The Sick Rose.
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
By William Blake

mightydreamer is Offline

   

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"...he came out of nowhere, always a friend of the victim at the slaughter of the innocents."