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HelpThe words 'I'm fine' are the newest ones I have learned
It's a scream for help,
Crying out even though you might not want it to
I ask why it must,
It answers, 'Because you need it"
No, I don't need help, I'm fine.
Lacrimosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla.
Judicandus homo reus,
Huic ergo parce deus.
Pie Jesu domine.
Indirect English Translation:
Tear filled eyes cried that day,
A day that which will rise from the ashes.
A guilty man waits for Judgment,
So have mercy, O' God, on this man.
Please compassionate Lord Jesus.
The 14th's MelodySoshite bouyaha nemurini tsuite
ikizuku haino nakano hono o hitotsu, futatsuto
ukabu fukurami itoshii yokogao
daichini taruru ikusenno yume, yume
Ginno hitomini yuragu yoruni
umareochita kagayaku omae ikuo kuno tositsukiga
ikutu inoriwo tsuchite kaeshitemo
Watashiha inorituzukeru mou kakonnokotoni aiwo
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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