| Filth Screeching, grating. it kills the mind with its annoying discords and painful cries lurking under every word and every syllable. It walks across the nerves in your brain, squishing and squeezing and squashing your senses in its search for blood. Nothing seems to get rid of it, no word nor weapon is fit� fit for its murder, fit for its demise� its long-awaited, happily expected, horrendously delayed departure (from this world). It skips, it falls, it flaps its wings in high notes� heaven. Frustration, one feels, in knowing it still lives. Depression, one knows, in the agony of its sound. Death to her voice� it�s all one wants� that�s all. If the voice expresses the soul, hers must be filthy, it must be a slime-ridden bowl covered with infections. |
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