long time ago I was able to text stories and just so shake off the cuff. Now I have no idea more for a new story. Thus the old writer sits at his blank sheet of paper. Various thoughts he has already brought some extent on the paper. But then again rejected and discarded. The ideas were good for nothing, they were lifeless and without wealth. In short, to not use. As he sat there, dormant, and before him, the thoughts in his mind I can draw. He does not want any more thoughts come to mind, which would be suitable for a story. It is already late, he looks around his office, the candle light dances on the walls. And out of the shadow of his books Death occurs slowly toward him. "So my good old writer. Your ideas are over, your time has expired. "Whispered the death. "Oh." Said the writer as "You're right, I should no longer among the living. But among the dead I will not change. "
So the writer. "Where do you want to be otherwise? You despise the death as life. "" I have seen many things in my life, learn a lot. And when I send white, then it is that life is no different than death on earth. I will still have an end, not linger and resting in thy kingdom. "" My kingdom is the end of days. So you come now? "" No I'm not going soft I'll go. You shall give me my end. Not only shift my life from one place to another. "" If so, then you should stay. should remain until death overtake you. Until that you will beg for it. "With these words, dark dungeon of death, the space of the writer.
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