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A slice of heaven is what they say, but the words are but the whim of a way. An unnamed feeling, a slice of healing. A rhythm within a hope, with a hidden ancient mope. urges from the moon, make an unnatural swoon. Missing me is like losing a war, or giving everything you have to the poor. Hunting rhyme is scorning whiles chasing hymes are boring. These are moments of the Nehpilim's reign, when all the mind cries 'pain'. Until the next...