We. can be named as parasitic habits, deconstructing the peace with spindly constructions and sowing discord into the ill_ gained ground beaneath a myriad of dirty feet.
A drastic fever consumes the tiny clay constructs, and they shatter, as they always do.
Unfortunately, the cracked ceramic parasites have never learnt nor known true death. Smoky Vengeance and hatred leaks from the cracks in their plates, spiraling downwards, heavily tainted with a lust for life.
The pungeant emissions cover the soil, contaminating what was left of it.
The World_Being shudders with another bout of chronic fever. Illwill. Thunderous groans and creaks. Splintering and spliced parasites.
He. Dies.
There will be a sad beauty in His death.
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