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MY SLEEP SHIFTS between semi-consciousness and a disorienting state of terrifying images

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MY SLEEP SHIFTS between semi-consciousness and a disorienting state of terrifying images. I see the misfortune befallen on the Yiddishets tormented by the demonic lineage, the epidermis torn from the bodies, the tears of the prisoners with their backs torn by the piercing marks of the lashes; the wooden poles treacherously raised to thrust themselves into the bodies of the unfortunates who do not know the weight of their steps.

Irishmeinah is a new piece of my life, stitched over other patches of unpleasant events. The worst part is the accumulation of visions and sensations that I would rather reject without feeling forced to digest them one by one.

I move away from the desperate voices of the Yiddishet, I can't help them even if I wanted to. If the end is breathing down my neck, what should I do? Is there an honorable way to die, or is it a belief I have obsessively clung to?

"You know what you must do, young Faoi. Get up. Don't fight for me, fight for yourself. Only for yourself!"

"Galodah?" I ask, flexing my fingers.

A shell-shaped wardrobe, sky-blue bedspreads, and Asmeidur dripping with saltwater-scented water. The puddles have flooded the floor, touching my fingers and wetting part of my pants. Asmeidur is a sword that controls the oceans and their destructive powers; the sea monster carved into its hilt, under the guard, reveals the element to which it belongs. It can soak in seawater and draw out large quantities.

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