Of ashes

This is a vicious cycle, of how the ouroborous chases its tail, unable to escape its fate. The wheel turns, the world moves. Soon the fires will burn themselves into embers, soon all that is left will be grey, charred ash. This, too, will pass.

 

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There are many ways to die

It takes two hands to clap

and you’re the bullet in the barrel of the gun; you’re the sharpened blade of the dagger; you’re the poison in the drink. But I’m the one pulling the trigger, pressing the cool steel to my throat, raising the glass to my mouth.