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“Now, here I lie, on this cold, sterile bed, Staring at the ceiling, wishing I were dead. Counting the hours, till peace comes to me, Longing for an end, from this misery.” — Niloy Shouvic Roy
Now, here I lie, on this cold, sterile bed,
Staring at the ceiling, wishing I were dead.
Counting the hours, till peace comes to me,
Longing for an end, from this misery.