Sennsual
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I fall, not from the heavens, but into a grave of ice, frost biting through skin already torn by its own ruin. Blood seeps slow, thick and warm, a fleeting comfort in this endless cold. Each drop a confession, a sin the earth will never forgive. Antarctica whispers nothing— its silence sharper than the wind, as if the world has turned away, content to let me bleed alone. Once, I flew among stars. Now, I am just a body, fading into snow, forgotten by heaven, forsaken by death.
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