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Dead air

No howling of the wind No chirping of insects Not even the ticking of the clock Just the humming sound of silence
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Rosemonde is dead

Rosemonde is dead She breathed her last - Sadly Much like she breathed her entire life But if there was one thing that made her happy Was the thought of death Are you happy now, Rosemonde?

Tired

of the morning alarms of the news of the traffic jams of the polluted air of the emails and phone calls of the to-do lists of the lack of time of the people of the daily routine of the tiredness