She coughs static into a handkerchief, and pixels cling to her glitching lips until she wipes them away. Consumption progresses—her body flickers, buzzes, often now she's just a noisy silhouette, barely part of reality at all. Sometimes her bed is empty, even though she's there
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Strange, how life is fading. You've found peace while we mourn.
Hvala. Twitter će to iskoristiti za poboljšanje vaše vremenske crte. PoništiPoništi
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And i can almost smell your T.B. sheets On your sick bed
Hvala. Twitter će to iskoristiti za poboljšanje vaše vremenske crte. PoništiPoništi
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Čini se da učitavanje traje već neko vrijeme.
Twitter je možda preopterećen ili ima kratkotrajnih poteškoća u radu. Pokušajte ponovno ili potražite dodatne informacije u odjeljku Status Twittera.
20, she / her