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that's not mozart


this is the drink and its whispers, beautiful, glass-sharp things - here, child, an elixir of life for the undead that you are; your night-thrashings in the tangled bedsheets tangled thoughts of a tangled life. you sip from stars gone cold, walk the vacuum between, one ruined world to the next. they wonder what your rotting eyes have seen: you who never killed, but know who set those violin strings to aching. this, common to stars and music and men - a light not yet come (but it will, it will).

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