鬼𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖺


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𝖨 π—…π—ˆπ—‡π—€ π–Ώπ—ˆπ—‹ 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 π—π—ˆ π—‡π—ˆπ— 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅''
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Talk; https://t.me/BiChatBot?start=sc-393139-YmpWhDv

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Four hours later Liv wakes in a box room with an Arsenal duet cover and a head that thumps so hard she has to reach up a hand to check she isn't being assaulted. She blinks, stares blearily at the little Japanese cartoon creatures on the wall opposite and lets her mind slowly bring together the pieces of information from the previous night.
Stolen bag...she closes her eyes. Oh, no.
Strange bed...she has no keys. Oh, God she has no keys. And no money. She attempts to move, and pain slices through her head so that she almost yelps.
And then she remembers the man. Pete? Paul? She sees herself walking through deserted streets in the early hours. And then she sees herself lurching forward to kiss him, his own polite retreat.
"You are delicious..."
"Oh, no," she says softly, then puts her hands over her eyes.
"Oh, I didn't..."
She sits up and moves to the side of the bed, noticing a small yellow plastic car near his right foot. Then, when she hears the sound of a door opening, the shower starting up next door, Liv grabs her shoes and her jacket and lets herself out of the flat into the cacophonous daylight.


For your little sister, who was eaten by dogs... Isn't it to get revenge? For your comrades from the restoration, for Dina, for Kruger, we need to keep moving forward to avenge them. Even if you die. Even after you die. This is the story... that you started.


Now cry, scream and beg for your life! Show me the despair on your face.


κ·Έλƒ₯ λ‚΄κ°€ ν–‰λ³΅ν•˜λ‹€κ³  느끼게 ν•΄μ€˜, 그게 λ‚΄κ°€ μ›ν•˜λŠ” μ „λΆ€μ•Ό


λ‚˜λŠ” λ„ˆλ¬΄ ν”Όκ³€ν•˜κ³  그것에 λŒ€ν•΄ μ΄μ•ΌκΈ°ν•˜κ³  싢지 μ•Šλ‹€.


제발 λ‘œμ¦ˆκ°€ λ‚  μ•„ν”„κ²Œ ν•˜μ§€λ§ˆ.


𝖣𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗒.;


𝖨 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 π—π—ˆπ—‚π–Όπ–Ύ'π—Œ 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 π—‡π—ˆπ— 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖀


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𝖨 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 π—π—ˆ 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 π—Žπ—‰. 𝖨 π—π–Ίπ—Œ 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 π—†π—Žπ–Όπ— 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 π–Ίπ—Œπ—…π–Ύπ–Ύπ—‰.
𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'π—Œ 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 π—Œπ–Ίπ–½. 𝖨𝗍 π—π–Ίπ—Œ π–Ίπ—…π—†π—ˆπ—Œπ— 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 π—‹π–Ύπ—π–Ύπ—‹π—Œ 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 π—’π—ˆπ—Ž 𝗐𝖺𝗄𝖾 π—Žπ—‰ π–Ώπ—‹π—ˆπ—† 𝖺 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾 π—’π—ˆπ—Ž'𝗋𝖾 π—Œπ—ˆ 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖨 π—π—ˆπ—„π–Ύ π—Žπ—‰ π—‚π—‡π—π—ˆ 𝖺 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾


𝖨 π—π—ˆπ—‡π–½π–Ύπ—‹ π—π—ˆπ— π—…π—ˆπ—‡π—€ 𝗂𝗍 π—π—ˆπ—Žπ—…π–½ 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾 π–Ώπ—ˆπ—‹ π–Ίπ—‡π—’π—ˆπ—‡π–Ύ π—π—ˆ π—‡π—ˆπ—π—‚π–Όπ–Ύ 𝗂𝖿.. 𝖨 π—ƒπ—Žπ—Œπ— π—Œπ—π—ˆπ—‰π—‰π–Ύπ–½ 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀?




A poetess is not as selfish
as you assume.
After months of agonising
over her marriage of words the bride
and spaces the groom,
she knows that as soon
as she has penned the poem,
it’s yours to consume.
So, without giving it a think,
she blows on the ink
and the letters fly away
like dandelions on a windy day,
landing on hands and lips,
on hearts and hips.
But more often than not,
you can easily spot
them trodden and forgotten,
becoming sodden and rotten.
Yet, she will continue to make
what’s others to take
because selfishness
is not the mark of a poetess


Remember. You can feel it if you hold your hand against your chest. It belongs to no one. It's our pulse, yours and mine. This is what brings us to the truth. It's what proves that we are the very world itself. Follow your instincts. The answer is already there.

-Ergo Proxy


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𝖨 π–Όπ—ˆπ—Žπ—…π–½'𝗏𝖾 π—Œπ–Ίπ—π–Ύ 𝗁𝖾𝗋.


A lie is truth, until you recognize it as a lie. To see the truth behind those lies is probably the right thing to do. However, it may not necessarily bring happiness. Lies are Happiness

-hoody


Believing in someone." That's a weird phrase, isn't it? After all, if you truly believed in a person, you wouldn't need to say, "I believe you." It's like saying, "I believe in air." I don't mean to say that "believing in something" is like a lie. "Believing" is really a term of hope of wanting to believe.

-Satoru Fujinuma

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