In a garden where the mist prevails, the flowers do not grow, the butterflies do not fly and the birds do not sing, a song resonates from all directions. A rhythmic and sweet song. Smooth and dancing. These are The Chronicles of the Garden of Death.

Have a good trip.

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My tired soul cries out for rest. My injured body can no longer support its own weight. But I will not give up. Not before going up and watching the god's body falling like a comet after kicking it from there.

Ellis looking at the skies