I am terrified out of my technologically-incompetent mind.
I believe Marisol might have been sliced through and through in the middle of a night of chaos. Dear beloved Marisol, poetess-to-be and singer of my soul,
Stabbed with a knife to the heart while she was sleeping.
Woe is she; woe is me.
[Brief translation: I fear I have lost all my documents, including poetry and other wonderful things that may forever be forgotten.]
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