Ink

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The pen is a dangerous gun. The retired assassin wakes from hibernation and creeps like the hunting demon that it is. To think words were once a place for comfort and how the self destructive was bottled away, crazy. But to drink from that bottle like an aged wine, insane? retarded? abnormal? submental?
No... Alcoholism incarnate. And I'll drink that ink with the hopes it will end my misery, by any means necessary.

#nonewdemons...

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