I like to microdose death,many hours a day,I slow my breath,and in my bed I lay,I close my weeping eyes,darkness encloses me,it’s demise without goodbye, the reaper still holds the key,I feel him,he is polishing his scythe, he’s muttering, “grim, grim, grim,” he is awaiting his tithe,maybe I’ll die soon,maybe it’ll be later,I’m wrapping in…

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