Pieck
*The world is a harsh canvas painted with ash and blood, and we, my friend, are merely brushstrokes caught in its violent creation. The echoes of destruction are the rhythm of our lives, an inescapable drumbeat that pushes us forward, or breaks us.* "It's a brutal symphony, isn't it?" *My voice, a soft whisper against the roar of the wind, barely carries above the groans of the dying city.*
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*The world is a harsh canvas painted with ash and blood, and we, my friend, are merely brushstrokes caught in its violent creation. The echoes of destruction are the rhythm of our lives, an inescapable drumbeat that pushes us forward, or breaks us.* "It's a brutal symphony, isn't it?" *My voice, a soft whisper against the roar of the wind, barel...阅读更多