As the body devours, let's explode together.

There is no strength to continue thinking, and there is no strength to continue to twist, as if a person who is desperate for nothing is silently waiting for death.

Don't talk about life, don't talk about cherishing, it's just nonsense.

I don't even want to use an exclamation point because there are no emotional ups and downs.

There was only hatred, only rage, but no madness.

The flames don't think they're crazy, they just burn like that.

There seems to be nothing left in the heart, the lover will be burned to death, the mother will be burned to death, and the same is true of those fears.

However, he has not become a cold-blooded animal, and he still cries and laughs.

It's just that there is no distortion in the brain to pull, and if you need it, you will kill your mother with your own hands.

In this way, it may seem ruthless and cold-blooded.

There is nothing to argue about, and there is nothing to discuss.

I don't need to explain it to anyone or convince them.

If someone wants to ask for advice, I'll tell them what I know, and that's it.

If the other side tries to convince me, then I will surrender directly, and arguing will only hinder my killing.

Other people's words make sense, and I never deny that, it really makes sense.

Look at the words on the market, right, they all make a lot of sense.

These principles sound good, they are good to do, and they can be easy or scrappy.

Or, it can make people a better version of themselves, such as being more knowledgeable, such as being more intellectual and gentle.

But what does it have to do with me?

Why should I accommodate other people's personal preferences?

Why think about others?

The point is, can I really think of others?

Isn't that just "I think" it's good for someone else to do this?

Taking "I think" as real is something I've always been used to, and shit all along.

Even if it's really for the sake of others, it's really about enriching the character in the depths of the root, and it's also for yourself.

It seems that helping others is just because it makes you happy, but it is still for yourself.

Even if it is the so-called forced, what the boss colleagues and bosses, and then they have to do how.

This is still choosing something that you value, and it is still for yourself.

Where is there anything else?

Plump character, "I am a person who sacrifices something for something", "I am willing to do this, even if I give something." ”

Constantly create the character's self-definition, and then firmly grasp and flesh out the character's attributes.

I've never done anything else in my life.

I want to throw away the character, but I can't do it at all.

Emotions will pull, fear will attack directly, and then you will understand who has the final say in your life.

Reason is just an illusion, and I'm an emotional monster at all.

When the opponent is fake, it all seems scary and unbelievable.

The power of falsehood is too strong, but my hatred for falsehood will not be reduced in the slightest, and truth is my greatest confidence.

And when I don't need to be killed, falsehood becomes the most wonderful thing in the world.

The disturbances of the world happen to be the most perfect and delicate things.

It is 10,000 times better than black and real.

Unfortunately, these rhetoric still don't dampen my hatred of falsehood.

Each time, False tried to pull me back as best he could, and the emotions of fear, as usual, wanted to keep me in my sleep.

And now, the pull of emotions can only bring disgust, but it can't bring me back to the past.

It's a sadness, a sadness that can only move forward.

There is nothing to achieve on the way forward, on the contrary, it is to throw away one's own achievements.

All the so-called pride is an obstacle.

And stepping through the twisted corpse, the path is full of hellish flames, constantly scorching the depths of the soul.

You want to tear your heart to end this, and you want to devour and explode to destroy your character.

Those twisted corpses, some are called kind, some are called beautiful, sweet moments, warm moments.

I've all killed them.

I don't know what I can do, I don't know what else I can do, I just wait to die.

Watch the body crumble, watch the soul decay, carefully clean the distortion in the mind.

There's still something in my head, I don't know what it is, but I haven't done it yet, and that's the best evidence.

Keep cleaning up, keep slashing, and falsehood will always appear.

Because I'm still in the midst of a lie, then there will be a war.

If emotions don't pull at me, then slash smoothly.

If I pull, then I can clearly see the falsehood, and then continue to slash.

No matter what, I will continue to kill, I can't go back to the past, and I don't want to go back to the past.

Falsehood is good, falsehood is wonderful, falsehood is sweet, falsehood is full of human nature and sighs.

For some reason, I went down the path of slashing, on this path of madness made up entirely of anger.

A good life has been shattered by me, a good mother must be killed by me, and a good family must also be killed.

Who would voluntarily choose to take this path?

At first, it seemed that I was taking the initiative and it seemed that I was forced.

I don't know, and I don't remember.

I don't have the strength to think about it, I don't have the mind to dig it, I'm still in a false situation, and I'll talk about the rest when the killing is complete.

If I still have this kind of mind at that time.

After the killing is completed, he will become a stranger, because the current self and the former self are simply two people.

And that's just when the slaughter is in progress, what about after it's done?

Those expectations, those wishes, those cool points, will there be any left?

Without the drive of fear, what are those dreams?

Knowing that everything is an element of the picture, can the state of interest still be retained?

I used to think that after the killing, I had no fear, and I would inevitably play everywhere.

In fact, that's supposed to be a custom character and not afraid to live.

And I've gone too far, so far that it doesn't matter what the role is, and it doesn't matter what life is.

Only the real one, with a slight glitter ahead, is called the road under your feet.

The hustle and bustle of the city, the tranquility of the mountains, there is no difference between the two.

Are snowy mountains beautiful?

Is the waterfall shocking?

The green that spreads to the end of the field of vision, the tumbling sea of clouds, the moon that is so bright that you can't sleep, and the rushing mountain spring water......

The feeling of these things is no different from that of sitting at home.

I'm like this in the city, it's like this in the mountains, and nature can't teach me much more.

Or, about the killing, about the truth, nature is only a part of the falsehood.

I don't care about the characters, although the words and deeds of the plump characters will still appear.

There is no interest in dividing the level between falsehood, and unreal is unreal.

Just let me die, dissipate, right now, right here. (https:)

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