"What am I supposed to do without you?
Is it too late to pick the pieces up?
Too soon to let them go?
Do you feel damaged just like I do?
Your face, it makes my body ache
It won't leave me alone"
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"What am I supposed to do without you?
Is it too late to pick the pieces up?
Too soon to let them go?
Do you feel damaged just like I do?
Your face, it makes my body ache
It won't leave me alone"
Ele era o príncipe maquiavélico que todos temiam no fim do dia. Um homem corrompido pelo aroma fúnebre da morte, com toque mortal que sugava a luz dos mais santos. Seus passos eram machados de fogo...