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Surrender to this wave of dread, your happiness has gone to bed; for I am the death of it anyways, it shall bleed red. God be with you in this witching hour, for I know your heart feels sour. I am angst, this is not a test.
Pity! To your poor soul as I fill your lungs with liquid, my mother always told me my ways may feel vindictive.
I'll whisper your worst nightmares into your ear, have you close to tears as I bring back those bad years.
How are you supposed to fight?
Hold yourself a little tighter baby, for I am the one that'll bring terror to your night.
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