Created to work, born only to fight, left without any semblance of knowledge of past. No linking of memory, no recollection, not even any matter of love. Even in my mechanic illusionary trance, something remains inside my deepest subliminal conscience. Something whispering in my ear, a bit of a long past life, someone trying to my attention very desperately. A voice that I drown out, a voice that I refuse to hear through my thick, murky fog. The voice of peace and my own special kind of love. I was made for work, but what was I created for? Is my maker my creater? Or is my existence due to someone other than what I know and fight for? In fact, they [1] might even be on the exact side I was fighting against. Perhaps I am fighting for something selfish and corrupted. So it is my choice. I am a young man who hides myself behind a mask, who hides from the truth. Will I obey what I am told? Or will I listen to the whisper that tries so very desperately to talk to, to speak and communicate to my lost and precious memory?

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