Your lips form a bitter line, a distant advance, soldiers of old hurts. Strangely, you're still beautiful. A hauntingly sad beauty, not based in pain, but akin to its risen shadow. I see it tattoo the wall, a skein of dark art, hollow in its light-starved and distant calamity. Lightning etched forever across an ancient sky.
Who represents your pain, and on whose help do you depend? How many strangers have you allowed a hand toward the power of your weakness? How many have you taken, how many refused? You assign each helper a dark heart.
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