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------------------ 2/4/04
I can’t be sure if this sickness will pass
With such limited beats left.
I’m all ready feeling my flesh decompose.
My body is withering just like the petals of a rose.
I’d grip onto life, but my fingers won’t bend
They crack into dust while my soul will not mend.
My eyes are lidded, it hurts to open not as if there’s any pain left.
I’m too afraid to try
If there’s no pain left in the world
How can I muster a fancy to die?
