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oceansdeath: “I think I’ll be forgotten.” His voice is gentle like the rain running haphazardly across the windowpane before becoming a torrent. It’s not like how it should be. Strong, unbreakable, like the martyr he’s made himself
twotheleft: What am I looking at? What… is this view? What is this sight? Ah, that’s it… That’s right… The view when I die is always like this. And I think, again and again. Who knew the light of the sun was as beautiful as this?