try driving up to the cemetary seeing your drunk idoit friends with a Ouija Board slapping it around the tomb stones .. and seeing dark shadows moving where there should be any.. grabbing 12 peps and stuffing them in a van while saying your sorry is a pain in the ass.. btw the next day we went back.. on a clear day it started to rain the moment we entered the cemetarty.. (friend left her purse there that night) the farther we got to were the purse was the harder it rained.. as we walked back the sudden storm lessened then stopped once we were out side.. our car was bone dry.. just dont be an asshat and be cool. what we learned that night and the next day.
oh heh on a brighter note.. the sorry fucker that talked them into it.. had scratches, deep 4 uniform gashes carved into his nice hot rod. now that was funny yet .. disturbing.. could have been other kids at the time but still that feeling was there.
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It means only one thing, and everything: Cut. Once committed to fight, Cut. Everything else is secondary. Cut. That is your duty, your purpose, your hunger. There is no rule more important, no commitment that overrides that one. Cut. The lines are a portrayal of the dance. Cut from the void, not from bewilderment. Cut the enemy as quickly and directly as possible. Cut with certainty. Cut decisively, resoultely. Cut into his strength. Flow through the gaps in his guard. Cut him. Cut him down utterly. Don't allow him a breath. Crush him. Cut him without mercy to the depth of his spirit. It is the balance to life: death. It is the dance with death. It is the law a war wizard lives by, or he dies.
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