Scoundrels are always in the same place at different times. They manifest as shallow angry old men, holding on to some ideal, who’s time, like them, has passed.
They send the young ones to their graves as a protest, to encapsulate, and forever preserve their mortality, within self-serving immorality – yet soon, they also die.
Sometimes – generations later, after multiple broken lives and hearts, their ideals die with them.
Flesh, and the death of it, is the price we pay for knowledge.
Hate – the price we pay for Love.

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