Texty:
Nientara Consequence

It's sickening, how sick I am of this It sickens me to be the only one who sees right through you. So fall. I hope you fall. You're playing your game

A severed stick engullfed by the water. A helpless suicide. Now there is no more swaying with the wind. These draing days always seem to carry me to

Forget the roses, I'm sending you thorns. So bleed with the wounds. Forget the roses, I'm sending you thorns. So wilt with the drought. I will take these