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The year was nineteen forty-five – cloudless, and the faint distant aroma of death gave us the nostalgia of the thirties. She stood there, shaking, her hot red lipstick lips kissing my name on the pistol.
Wingless hopes her breathing goes but somehow deep down inside we knew it would not. Her breathing went faint now, or has the introduction of fear affected my hearing. My thoughts seemed to be losing their connection to reality; the last bits of reasonable thought crumbling beneath, so funny how things can change.
The stench leaking from within overpowered, black rose bush stood waiting for some time now. Clock was soon to strike midnight but I couldn't expect to see the number twelve. Fear was in and kept a grasp on my throat, asphyxiating in my own imagination.
My hopefulness whispers for it to come quickly, the cold spoon touching the back of my neck, lifeless beats, and lifeless rhythms. Exhaling the thoughts of yesteryear, memories swirl but they make no sense now, curse it.
Coffee cup motionless on the table as my head falls to the ground, skull cracking, bones turn to nothingness, skin colored in gray and the eyes swallowed to leave an emotionless face.
One last smirk for the un-adoring fans, with that melancholia was dead.