Dear Diary,
Half smugly lost smiles, vacant stares all locking the grim chance under the thundering bolts of fair cleaves. They made a havoc out of me and i am in ruins a living dead, yet a seed to life. I am not bleedling physically, so they find no reason for me to cry. The lantens are all shadows of mist construing the damage and leaving my soul threadbare and drenched in hushing crowd of flare. I can find myself nowhere now.