Because every wound you inflict on him comes back to strike you thousand-fold. Because he was you. Because he is still you. { The young man dressed in red in the mirror seems to disperse into fragments, to melt away, at the words. ]
And you aren't dead. [ Wouldn't he know that, most of all? ] Nor devoid of a heart, as much as you try to say otherwise.
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And you aren't dead. [ Wouldn't he know that, most of all? ] Nor devoid of a heart, as much as you try to say otherwise.