She did not allow me to live

Itches in unreachable places and books drenched in spilt milk. Would it be better if it was spilt water? Would that have made the destruction cleaner? How clean can death be, the decay of what once had a future and memories attached to it? Death makes you a memory, one that steadily fades with each lapsing moment. I guess you live on in the hearts and minds of people as intensely and deeply as you lived.. Forging neural pathways through self-discovery and mending neurons through healing leaves an imprint in the collective unconscious.. An echo, a trace that calls people to the void.

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