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I've sold the greatest, the shiniest, a grand part of myself to a demon that only eats me alive from inside. And the worst part is not his bites, but the justifications for such torture. Because here, virtues are sin and cruelty is the axiom. My hierarchies are now flipped, and all hell broke loose. If there's one thing to be grateful for, is my capacity to scan your presence in my memories. In the face of this abyss, when the darkest tar paints this accidental reality, you would appear as the most divine — perhaps beyond God or whatever structure predicates the kingdoms of the heavens.
As insane as this reality has become — do I worship you? That could be the case. And do I put you above all possible gardens offered by the bibles? that's certainly a possibility. And if one objects to this practice, I wouldn't hesitate to drag them from that Plato's cave and let the dance begin with their ribs open for there's nothing here but traumatized stars and angels who resigned to ally with the fire of avenge and false promises.
I still love you, and I don't seem to stop loving you. The darkest the horror, the brightest your name becomes. I didn't mean to leave you, and I didn't mean to reject you. I was stupid as a goose and my speech wasn't governed enough. Please, at least, in my death, give me a genuine promise that it wouldn't be a sin for me to scream your name as my only honesty on earth
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