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On another note, I've been writing! Here's a little excerpt from the beginning (P.S., he is alive. He's just being dramatic):
I do not think I am alive. My arms are too thin, my legs, too weak, and my face is as gaunt as the veshgon prisoners of war. My heart is gone—or maybe it is my soul—swallowed by the void of time. What beats in its place is the echo, a whisper, a shadow of what it used to be, yet still pumping blood through my body, pointlessly trying to warm my frozen, scarred skin.
Seemingly from far away, I flex my fingers, watching as my skin dark, weathered and pock-marked skin stretches across my bones, the silver lines of scars ebbing and flowing like tendrils of rivers racing towards the sea. They are my hands, and yet, they feel as if they belong to someone else. I am but a ghost inside this body—an impression of self long faded and decayed; a stretched thread of consciousness tethered to a world it should have left long ago.
This is not living, only existing. I am not alive.
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