Message_4.txt

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"Thou the blood was written firsthand on the face of the soldier. His feet numb, his arms weak, his body cold. He strangled himself across the white skies of snow. He didn't know what he had done to himself. He saw a dark image, a girl cried in the distance. He fell to the ground at the knees of the girl. She cursed the soldier for not saving her from the mere image of his creation. She disappeared into the darkness, not to be seen again. He grabbed the cold knife and slashed his neck, the blood dripped. He sacrificed himself, for the poor child."

Is this life? Is life a mere illusion? Is life one of the sacrifices we make? We are dead bodies walking on this planet. We have no purpose, so why bother living it? Is there such things as life goals? There isn't any to me.

Life is written on the back of your hand, waiting to be looked at. Life is in the air, filling the flowers with joy and happiness. Life gives power, but it gives death as well. Death causes depression. Death causes pain and suffering, it doesn't give life. What is better, to live in an illusion, or to face a harmful truth.

Life is a book that is new and ready to be read. Death is the end, where the book is finished, never to be read again. Life is happy, death is sad. We will never see the daylight that once filled us with joy again.

As a poem once read, never to be read again.

"Life asked Death, 'Why do people love me but hate you?' Death responded, 'Because you are a beautiful lie, and I am a painful truth.'"

We thought of life as happiness, joy, and strong, but death comes along with life. We pray to thou that you will give immortality and power to those who thou promised. So give us thy life so we may be able to become this happiness. Can I get an amen?

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