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The world, a grotesque puppet show, swayed to the rhythm of the madman's laughter, its strings pulled by unseen hands, their touch cold and clammy. I, the puppet master, pulled the strings of my own demise, weaving a tapestry of madness, its threads soaked in the venom of despair.
And as the dawn approached, painting the sky with hues of despair, I awaited the inevitable, a smile playing on my lips, a smile that mirrored the grotesque grin of the insane.