

The FaultForsaken scars left behind, cast out by their designer. A monstrous creation oblivious to intent as it strides across parchment, rending it with a cheap imitation of the writer's heart. For it knows not love, sorrow, joy, or hate; but acts only as a pores funnel from the laden hand to the immortal medium.The Fault
It acts with a cold objectivity, a notorious lack of passion, begetting nothing of any dissimilarity.
Oh, this wretched device and loathed ink. Pass not, my ideas, through this instrument. Rather take the instruction from my soul and my heart's blood as the mark.
Fall away you shallow utensil, my mind i
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We apologize for the fault of the sucky signature. Those responsible have been sacked.
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