An Anti-heroin with a thousand faces, weaving tales like mist over the open sea. As the falling angel whispers to open the gates to the cold, dead and flaming goal at the end of spiral of violence. Under the darkened moon, she sharpens care and connection. She ties you up, binding hands and feet, your head exposed to the elements. "Why don't you stop?" she asks. I'm not here for fun. Disia
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