Part II

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Cut Hearts, Old Dreams.

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The last of us will die cold and frail. Our spines will bend with the awkwardness of millennia, souls little more than powder tumbling under our livers, hearts gone meek where once they thundered. Time will eat up memories before our eyes, crunch the cartilage of knowledge, crack open wisdom with its jaws and suck out the marrow. There will be mantle and bedrock and topsoil over our graves before anyone ever thinks to mourn for us.

And still, the last of us will die greater than the best of you.


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