Just Words

The life that drinks of agéd spirits not: It is a being I, for as long as My essence spills its art to terrene ground Shall never palate; from my cellar do Unlock themselves the bygone spectres of Those times of since joviality. And I sup of them; intoxication sweet…

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Ago

Look at him. Look at what he’s become. He’s a machine. He’s learned to lock out all the sensations that once made him so human. Is this truly the only way a man can survive as he learns the truths of the world?

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