Rings upon rings upon increasingly dark rings, I spiral downward toward the edge of existence, guided by the trembling hands of a sickly puppet master. There used to be a charming musicality to the passing of time, but my choir has gone silent with the passing of my soul.
I’d find hitchhikers as I spiraled, they would join me in my journey, and I on theirs. I would revel in their company and would dearly call them friends. Now all I stumble across are echoes of a hurtful past and chimes that foretell an even grimmer future. It is of my own making and I am powerless against my sins.
Try as I might, I do not soothe.
I only cut.
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