Sentiment, the vainglorious refuge of that which refuses to pass.
Lore
We live, and take the unsettling exhortations of the dead to mean that they wish to be joined, unwilling or incapable of hearing any lyricism in their moaning.
Do the undead exist only to end us?
Or do they perceive our fearful cries as gospel, verses in a sonnet on the pain and frustration of unlife?
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