I look down at my hands,
Covered are they,
In the blood,
Of those I knew.

The characters,
Those of import,
Those who matter little,
Those I knew.

I shudder,
Thinking of myself,
My callousness,
How could I condemn my imagination to death?

I have blood on my hands;
That of all my dead,
That of myself;
Thus is the curse of writing...
Forever is there blood on your hands,
No matter how skilled you are.  

The End

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