The corpses are piled high around. Blood carpets the floor and flames scorch away the last remnants of humanity. The screams of the damned echo in my head. I smile. I am home.
When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind. — Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind
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