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Pale Lights - Chapter 118 - 70
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... at was the worst part. Tristan had always hated the way some philosophers wept at the difficulty of taking a life. Killing was easy, if you did it right, and often cheap. Death was nothing special: thousands died every day in the most mundane of ways without there being a plot afoot. Gods, a man could die eating soup if they were careless about it. Existence was a candle in the wind and the act of killing was nothing special, often no more complicated or demanding than hammering a nail.
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