Silence is my friend. A foregiving of patches, frailing emotions shall echo the dying well of the succumbed flame. Heed the everlasting hail of the dying brethren, doth seek the ending. Bell'eth the old calls where the old shall slumber in peace now throttles on the filling regrets of the new. Changeth man, changeth will; shalt the pique of glasses fill the bells of the old. Where shall I rest? I shall rest among the partisans, the partisans among the bed of flowers under the mountain. Desire to lose hope now bowels the last patches of thread.
I'm bidding farewell. 19th of September 2020, the date where shall I perish. In the room of cold, the dying and the heated shall compete with my mind, thrice thus part, so does the will of exposure. Bid well, my old partisans and my old self, I'm sorry. I lost the battle thrice, now I'm succumbing to my own defeat. Shall be my remaining days to be full of bittersweet interaction, doth they know for I'm ending the span of my time. The winding silence shall echo the dying well. The last struggle, the last breath and the last movement shall echo the room. I'm lost. I'm broken. Where shall I go? For the time I set departs to the endless sea of embowelment dangers, I shall let the waves consume me for the very last time. The glasses that once filled me are now broken. I'm dying.
The last thread shall be woven the remaining fabric on what I have, cut. I'm gone. Shall be my remaining days to be remembered, alas not for I'm weak, thrice to be seen. Toyed by men and females, toyed by everything. I'm fed up. I shall bell the endless tolls and call Death. Greeting Death for the very last time, an old familiar friend.