There's the pale skin, there's the sclera in the eye. The eyes moving rapidly. There are no copies of you, just yourself, draining out.
No white outside, you're waiting for the winter solstice. The night encapsulated your body. You see your reflection everywhere, there's no need for a mirror.
When will it all end? The promised the end and all I've got is this constant avalanche of paleness.
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