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My knuckles were bruised like violets, sucker punching walls, cursed you as I sleep-talked. Spineless in my tomb of silence, tore your banners down, took the battle underground. And maybe it was ego swinging, maybe it was her. Flashes of the battle come back to me in a blur. All that bloodshed, crimson clover, uh-huh, sweet dream was over, my hand was the one you reached for all throughout the Great War.