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Tuesday, December 18, 2007


   Depressed. . .
Knowing he is nothing more than a warrior, he steps out into the snowstorm. The snow, although it burns his bare skin with it's icey frigidness, calms him. He walks through the white desert, finding nothing and none to help him... He turns and sees a great beast, shrieking like a banshee, it's eyes glowing... The next day, the paper reports that a sixteen year old male was hit by a 18-wheeler... It's claimed as an accident, and is accepted as that, because he never told them that Death had his number...
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