There was a man, elegant and beautiful, his mind like a soft summers rain and his vioce a meek southern comfort. When he spoke people listened, when he laughed people laughed, when he wrote they read every word, yet he died a broken man in a shallow hole of depression; why? For the truth he told, he told it in a way that nobody wants to know it, the kind that reminds people of the things they do wrong, the kind of truth that only he could tell. He told this truth because he had seen death, he had become intimate with a murder, and then watched them murdered in turn. That is why he told the truth, because after you see death, the frailty of lies provides no comfort.
I think I will write him a song.
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