The dark crow man sits and stares into the oblivion into cold into nothingness; it's snowing in his mind.
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He's created himself in his own image. Lust held for him means naught, a knock on the door brings no smile to his cruel lips;
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the welcome in a woman's eyes holds nothing for him.
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Alone on his haunches the hair raises on the back of his neck. His dead eyes pierce the night.
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As his gaze falls down on the city it fills him the method ascertained, conviction.
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He knows what to do and moves to commit the deed.
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The Subtle Arts Of Murder & Persuasion
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Lamb Of God |