WARNING: Unexpectedly dark... Granted, but because of this you're constantly writing. Your fingers wear down to nubs of nothing but nerve endings and porcelain bone. Every thought results in unbearable pain for you. You cry out loud as you can for a lobotomy, or for someone to just end it for you, but no one can hear. Your fingers have worn away, and now your palms are haphazardly smashing against your keyboard. The garbled symbols of the Latin alphabet writhe on the screen, your palms unable to hit precise keys, your mind unable to process precise thought. Soon you'll have to smash your head against the keyboard to keep typing your nonsense thoughts, and then, perhaps, if God is merciful, you'll die.
Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Oromë the Great in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. - The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
Granted, but as I die you realize what you've done and you are ridden with unbearable guilt forevermore. This drives you into deep depression and you commit suicide.
I wish for a unicorn.
"All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
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