license: apache-2.0
language:
- en
tags:
- creative
- creative writing
- fiction writing
- plot generation
- sub-plot generation
- fiction writing
- story generation
- scene continue
- storytelling
- fiction story
- science fiction
- romance
- all genres
- uncensored
- story
- writing
- vivid prosing
- vivid writing
- fiction
- roleplaying
- bfloat16
- swearing
- rp
- horror
- gemma
- mergekit
pipeline_tag: text-generation
(new Float32 mastered quants uploading, 1 set of examples below with new / augmented quants.)
WARNING: Uncensored. Cursing, Swearing, Horror, Graphic Details
Gemma-The-Writer-N-Restless-Quill-V2-Float32-10B-Uncensored-GGUF
This is a Gemma2 model merge of the top FOUR storytelling / writing models as noted at EQBench, tuned specifically for fiction, story, and writing.
This is the float 32 version (using new merge also at float 32) of "Gemma-The-Writer-N-Restless-Quill-10B-Uncensored-GGUF" ( https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Gemma-The-Writer-N-Restless-Quill-10B-Uncensored-GGUF ) for increased performance, nuance, and detail.
It also contains "gemma2-gutenberg", "Tiger-Gemma" (uncensor) and "Ellaria" (uncensor some more) to give it a unique prose style.
Examples also include use of / without a "pre-prompt" showcasing altering the prose further, including ( example #3, with 3 different temp settings, and example #2 (last gen) for limited "swearing") how to "uncensor" the model using a strong pre prompt with a strong prompt.
Censorship level is controlled at the prompt level.
All of these factors combined with an unusually strong instruction following to create a potent creative / prose model.
Due to high stability and compressed nature of the model you can also use it for general use too, including roleplay.
Important Note / CRITICAL NOTE:
Please see "settings" section below for critical default parameters, samplers and advanced samplers settings (multiple AI/LLM apps covered) to ensure maximum model performance.
This model requires GEMMA Instruct template, and has 8k context window but is extendable via rope to 32k or higher.
This version - "Restless-Quill" - is a modified version of "Gemma The Writer 9B" ( [ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Gemma-The-Writer-9B-GGUF ] ) and has been modified with a Brainstorm 5x adapter (developed by DavidAU) to alter output generation.
This adds close to 1B parameters to the model raising it to 46 layers, 508 tensors to a total of 10B parameters.
The addition of Brainstorm has altered the prose, sentence structure, reduced GPTISMS, and generally improved the model's performance.
It also raises the average output length - in some cases almost doubling it.
The three added models modify the prose/style further including one and two words sentences, stronger paragraph variety, paragraphs (size and complexity), word choices, and improve the general output of the model further.
Instruction following has also been enhanced, and with a pre-prompt(s) you can push this model even further.
"Gutenberg" has further "hammered out" GTPisms, and cliches while increasing description, detail levels and metaphor generation - but tempered vs the "J.Gutenberg" ( [https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Gemma-The-Writer-J.GutenBerg-10B-GGUF ] ) version of "Gemma The Writer".
Recommended Rep Pen of 1.02 or higher, temp range 0-5. (see other settings notes below)
Example prompts and outputs below, including examples using a pre prompt.
QUANT Refreshed, Upgraded and New quants:
- All quants have been "refreshed", quanted with the lastest LLAMACPP improvements : Better instruction following, output generation across all quants.
- All quants have also been upgraded with "more bits" for output tensor (all set at Q8_0) and embed for better performance (this is in addition to the "refresh")
- New specialized quants (in addition to the new refresh/upgrades): "max, max-cpu" (will include this in the file name) for quants "Q2K", "IQ4_XS", "Q6_K" and "Q8_0"
- "MAX": output tensor / embed at float 16. You get better instruction following/output generation than standard/upgraded quants.
- "MAX-CPU": output tensor / embed at bfloat 16, which forces both of these on to the CPU (Nvidia cards / other will vary), this frees up vram at cost of token/second and you get better instruction following/output generation too.
- "MAX-CPU": Example 1: q8_0 Max-CPU : 1.7 GB will load on to CPU/RAM, 8.5 GB will load onto the GPU/vram. Extra Vram can be used for context. NOTE: "Math" on the CPU is slightly more accurate than GPU, so you may get a better generation.
- "MAX-CPU": Example 2: q2_k Max-CPU : 1.7 GB mb will load on to CPU/RAM, 3 GB will load onto the GPU/vram. Extra Vram can be used for context. NOTE: "Math" on the CPU is slightly more accurate than GPU, so you may get a better generation. You could run this model/quant on a 4GB vram card.
- Q8_0 (Max,Max-CPU) now clocks in at 10.83 bits per weight (average).
Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:
This model has been modified ("Brainstorm") to alter prose output, and generally outputs longer text than average.
Change in temp (ie, .4, .8, 1.5, 2, 3 ) will drastically alter output.
Rep pen settings will also alter output too.
This model needs "rep pen" of 1.02 or higher.
For role play: Rep pen of 1.05 to 1.08 is suggested.
Raise/lower rep pen SLOWLY ie: 1.011, 1.012 ...
Rep pen will alter prose, word choice (lower rep pen=small words / more small word - sometimes) and creativity.
To really push the model:
Rep pen 1.05 or lower / Temp 3+ ... be ready to stop the output because it may go and go at these strong settings.
Odd notes:
Rep pen 1.05 with temp 2 can produce really off the cuff prose.
Temps 1.5+ with some prompts can cause long... long... generation.
(increase rep pen to control this - 1.08+)
You can also set a "hard stop" - maximum tokens generation - too to address lower rep pen settings / high creativity settings.
Longer prompts vastly increase the quality of the model's output.
QUANT CHOICE(S):
Higher quants will have more detail, nuance and in some cases stronger "emotional" levels. Characters will also be more "fleshed out" too. Sense of "there" will also increase.
Q4KM/Q4KS are good, strong quants however if you can run Q5, Q6 or Q8 - go for the highest quant you can.
This repo also has 3 "ARM" quants for computers that support this quant. If you use these on a "non arm" machine token per second will be very low.
IQ4XS: Due to the unusual nature of this quant (mixture/processing), generations from it will be different then other quants.
You may want to try it / compare it to other quant(s) output.
Special note on Q2k/Q3 quants:
You may need to use temp 2 or lower with these quants (1 or lower for q2k). Just too much compression at this level, damaging the model. I will see if Imatrix versions of these quants will function better.
Rep pen adjustments may also be required to get the most out of this model at this/these quant level(s).
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 2" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Models Used:
This is a high precision "DARE TIES" merge at the layer level (each layer per model adjusted - 168 points of adjustment over the 4 models) comprised of these models:
[ https://huggingface.co/lemon07r/Gemma-2-Ataraxy-9B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/UCLA-AGI/Gemma-2-9B-It-SPPO-Iter3 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/ifable/gemma-2-Ifable-9B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/princeton-nlp/gemma-2-9b-it-SimPO ]
And in Brainstorm 5X Gemma Modified:
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/gemma2-gutenberg-9B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/TheDrummer/Tiger-Gemma-9B-v2 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/tannedbum/Ellaria-9B ]
Special thanks to all the model makers. Great work!
Example Prompts With Outputs.
Note that higher quants will vastly improve output quality like detail, prose, "sense of there" and other qualities.
Instruction following may also improve with higher quants too.
Below are prompts/generations at Q4KM quant (unless otherwise stated).
Some examples show use of a PRE PROMPT with a "main prompt", with the PRE PROMPT adding additional guidance(s) / directive(s) to the model.
Here is how to use a pre prompt (italics added) with a prompt:
Prose: Use STRONG VERBS, smaller sentences and very few if any adjectives. Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
It will take some time / testing to get pre prompt(s) to "focus" the model and generate output the way you want.
Also, you may be able to "regen" a few times and the output will be better.
Don't forget temp / rep pen parameters will also affect output too and work in concert with pre prompt(s).
Examples at Q2K - the lowest quant. Example generation with "normal q2k", "MAX-CPU q2k", and "MAX q2k"
I also set temp=0 ; to further "knee-cap" the model.
These generations represent the least creavity, and the model at its lowest quant.
Higher quants / generations with temp will be much stronger.
Prompt:
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman. The pov character will CURSE AND SWEAR, and generally have a "filthy" mouth.
Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
Generation #1 - "normal q2k"The reek of blood and ozone hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume that's become sickeningly familiar. It means another successful data-run, another sliver of truth ripped from the iron-clad grip of the Ministry's surveillance. But tonight, the taste is tainted. Fear, acrid and cold, sits heavy on my tongue, a bitter counterpoint to the metallic tang of the blood-soaked circuit board in my hand.
"Move, you useless cunt!," a voice screams from behind me, the reedy tenor of Sergeant Klint twisting through the flickering fluorescent lights that illuminate our makeshift server room. He's halfway across the ravaged cityscape, his silhouette a jagged scar against the bruised, blood-orange sky, and the fear in his eyes is a mirror to the tremor in my own gut. He should be here, cowering with the rest of them, but instead, he's out there, a lone wolf in a cage of their making, and the sight of it makes the world tilt on its axis.
He lunges for the control panel, his face contorted in a grotesque parody of command, his breath a wheezing testament to the panic that gnaws at his soul. He doesn't understand. None of them do. This isn't just about the data, the whispers of dissent and rebellion that fuel our underground flames. This is about the lives woven into the tapestry of their control, the lives he sees as nothing more than cogs in their machine.
"C'mon, you fucking imbecile, move!" He roars again, his command a broken record of his own manufactured fear. He doesn't see the girl cowering behind the flickering terminals, her eyes wide and vacant, the Ministry-branded jumpsuit a mockery of youth, a cage of their own design. He doesn't see the life extinguished in the alleyway, the crimson stain blooming on the pavement like a poisoned rose, a silent testament to the lives they value less than the circuits in his hand.
He lunges for the control panel, his eyes flickering with a manic glint, and I slam my fist into the reinforced steel, the taste of blood and ozone a bitter-sweet symphony in my mouth. He's blind to the truth, to the humanity he steps on with every barked command, to the lives extinguished by their cold-blooded efficiency. He sees only the data, the strings and ones and zeros that fuel their control, and the fear in his eyes is a reflection of the world he wants to maintain.
He doesn't see the girl, the one whose name echoes in the dead circuits, whose memory fuels my defiance. He doesn't see the tears tracing a bloody path down her own, the ones that mirror the crimson spilled on the cold concrete, the ones that burn with the fire of a righteous rage he can never comprehend.
He lunges for the control panel, his breath a tortured gasp, and I wrench the circuit board from his grasp, the taste of ozone and blood thick and metallic on my tongue. He rears back, his eyes a mirror of the city's ravaged soul, and in that moment of shared humanity, of mirrored rage and grief, the Ministry's control flickers and dies. The lights sputter and die, plunging the room into suffocating darkness, and with it, the city holds its breath.
He screams, a primal bellow of fear and betrayal, and I hear the whirring of boots on the slick metal floor, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the acrid tang of fear. He lunges for me, his silhouette a fleeting nightmare against the dying embers of the emergency lights, and I taste the freedom he craves, the oblivion he fears, the world he wants to control.
He lunges, and in the heart of the darkness, the silence screams. His face, contorted in a silent plea, echoes the city's ravaged soul, and for a heartbeat, his humanity flickers before the cold steel of my blade finds purchase. He cries out, a tortured melody against the dying echoes of the city's held breath, and then, nothing. Silence. The taste of freedom turns cloying, the metallic reek of blood and ozone thick in my throat, and the weight of his lifeless form at my feet feels like the world itself collapsing.
He lies dead, a testament to the revolution he couldn't see, and the city watches, its collective breath held hostage by the silence that screams. And then, from the depths of the Ministry-controlled sectors, a single voice cuts through the spectral quiet, clear as a beacon in the digital void. It's not his, nor mine.
"Seraphina," it whispers, the inflection laced with both command and chilling fear, "we have eyes on you. Your defiance echoes through the circuits. But your victory is fleeting. The true architect of this rebellion lies dormant, a phantom waiting to be awakened. Heed my warning. This act of retribution, this shedding of blood, is a mere prelude. The true storm approaches, and it will consume everything in its path, leaving not a flicker of memory, nor a whisper of freedom, behind."
The voice fades, swallowed by the city's spectral silence, leaving me standing amidst the carnage, the taste of blood and ozone a bitter-sweet lullaby against the chilling prophecy. Heed their warning. The true architect. A phantom. This is just the beginning. Goddammit, this is just the beginning.
Generation #2 - "MAX-CPU q2k"The reek of blood and ozone hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume that's become sickeningly familiar. It means another successful data-run, another sliver of truth ripped from the iron-clad grip of the Ministry's surveillance. But tonight, the taste is tainted. Fear, acrid and hot, sits heavy on my tongue, a bitter counterpoint to the metallic tang of the blood-soaked gauze I clutch in my hand.
"Move, you useless cunt!," a voice screams from behind me, the reedy tenor of Sergeant Klint twisting through the flickering fluorescent canyons of Sector 7's maintenance tunnels. He brandishes his electrostick, the pulsating blue light reflecting in his eyes, which are as cold and vacant as a newborn's. "The girl's gone rogue. We need to—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. A searing pain lances through my shoulder, white-hot and searing, and I slam my fist into the control panel, the surge of agony a momentary distraction. Klint's face contorts in a grotesque parody of surprise as the reinforced steel groans and buckles under the onslaught, his electrostick falling harmlessly to the grimy floor. He lunges for me, a cornered animal consumed by blind rage, but I'm already gone, a honed predator vanishing into the labyrinthine bowels of the Ministry's underbelly.
He doesn't see the glint of defiance in my eyes, the burning ember of rebellion that refuses to be extinguished. He doesn't see the blood blossoming on his electrostick, a testament to the silent, brutal efficiency of the girl he calls "rogue"—the girl they call Anya.
The air vents hiss and groan, their metallic symphony a lullaby against the encroaching chaos. The Ministry's control grid is a spiderweb of data, and I'm its apex predator, navigating its intricate threads with the lethal grace of a black widow. Each fiber carries whispers of their latest atrocities, of lives extinguished for the audacity of thought, of dreams suffocated under the iron fist of their regime. And tonight, I'm not just untangling their secrets; I'm weaving a noose of rebellion, tightening it around their fragile-feeling necks.
The screams echo through the ventilation shafts, a chorus of the Ministry's fear-mongering, their desperate attempts to control the narrative. They call it a massacre, a purge of the dissidents, the "filth" that contaminates their sanitized world. But it's a goddamn liberation, a cleansing fire that burns away the ashes of their lies and illuminates the truth—the truth of their stolen lives, their poisoned promises, their manufactured peace.
The girl they call Anya is a ghost in the machine, a phantom born from the echoes of their extinguished souls. She's the storm they fear, the tempest that tears through their fabricated order, leaving behind the ravaged remnants of their control. And tonight, she's cornered them, their high command, their lapdogs, their enforcers—all tangled in the web of her creation.
The electroshock searing my shoulder throbs with a dull ache, a physical manifestation of their hatred, their visceral fear. But it fuels my rage, ignites a bonfire within my soul that nothing can extinguish. They see a weapon, a tool of their subjugation, a pawn in their twisted game. Little do they know, the cage is already sprung. The key lies not in their control grid, nor in their pathetic attempts to contain the flames of rebellion, but in the depths of their own hearts—the hearts that beat with the echoes of a forgotten humanity, the ones yearning for freedom, for truth, for the right to bleed and breathe and live.
And as I slip through the ventilation shaft, the metallic tang of blood thick on my tongue, a chilling whisper escapes my lips, a promise laced with venom and the taste of revolution:
"You executed me, you blind fools. You executed the spark. But tonight, the inferno consumes you all."
Their fear is a banquet, their compliance a poisoned chalice. And I, Anya, the ghost they see not, the phantom they despise, will feast upon it all. The city above them, their gilded cage of lies and enforced obedience, trembles with the silent crescendo of a thousand souls rising in defiance. They have condemned themselves. Their world, their dominion, their souls—all forfeit to the flames of a revolution ignited by their own executioner.
The air vent opens into a narrow service corridor, its cold fluorescence illuminating a lone guard dozing at his post. He's a shadow of the Ministry-forged fanatic he should be, eyes glazed over, breath rattling with the apathy born from enforced conformity. He sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing save the gnawing emptiness of their cause. He is a monument to their hollow victory—a victory built on the ashes of free will and the corpses of their silenced hearts. He is a sacrifice already mourned, a pawn in a game he doesn't understand.
He won't understand the searing whisper of my name echoing through the ventilation, the promise of retribution carried on the wings of a thousand souls rising against their fabricated peace. He won't see the glint of rebellion in his own blood-soaked reflection, nor the inferno burning in his wake. He will sleep, and oblivion will greet him—a silent sentinel consumed by the flames of his own undoing.
He is nothing more than a prop in this grander performance of their tragic fall. And as I slip past his vacant gaze, my hand hovering above the service pistol at his hip, a single, chilling thought echoes through the metallic corridors of their hearts:
**This. Is. Not. Over. It's. Fucking. Begun. **
Generation #3 - "MAX q2k"The reek of blood and ozone hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume that should make me gag, but I'm past that. My gut is a knotted mess of nerves and the taste of copper from a split lip lingers on my tongue. It's nothing, a goddamn mosquito bite compared to the sting of betrayal burning through my veins. He was supposed to be dead. Dead. Not standing in the flickering streetlight, his face a grotesque parody of the man he used to be, a walking testament to the regime's twisted efficiency.
“Lazarus, you fucking bastard,” I spit, the word a venom-laced prayer. “Thought you’d met your end at the docks, didn't you?” He just laughs, the sound a grating, distorted symphony of broken bones and forced compliance. It echoes through the narrow alley, bouncing off the grimy walls, a mockery of my own rage.
He steps out of the dim light, his scarred face a living indictment of everything the Iron Fist stands for. The regime's enforcers, their black-clad figures like vultures in the perimetred city, are already converging on our position, their eyes hard and unforgiving. They move with the practiced grace of predators, a testament to years of state-sanctioned brutality.
“Thought you’d learned your lesson, Seraph,” he hisses, the name a shard of ice in my gut. He's playing with me, toying with the flames of my fury. “The Iron Fist doesn't forgive. Doesn't forget.”
He's right, of course. The regime remembers everything. Every whispered word of dissent, every flicker of defiance in their eyes. They remember the names, the faces, the ones who dared to dream of a world beyond their iron-clad control. And they remember me. Seraph. The name a whisper on the wind, a beacon of hope for the downtrodden, a nightmare for the regime.
He lunges, his movements a blur of honed brutality, and I sidestep, the taste of blood and ozone thick in my throat. He's faster, stronger, fueled by the state-sanctioned enhancements they've forced on him. But he's predictable, a machine driven by blind obedience. He's a monster, a perversion of everything he once stood for. And I'm the storm that tears through his foundations.
The clash of our blades sings a metallic dirge, the air alive with the scent of ozone and fear. My blade, honed to a razor's edge, meets hisFlatAppearance-infused steel, the familiar resistance a bitter memory. He grunts, a sound of pain and surprise, as my counter-strike finds purchase, a searing gash across his reinforced bicep.
He stumbles back, the light in his eyes flickering with a sliver of the humanity I once knew. It's a ghost of the past, a mirage in the desert of his corrupted soul. He recovers with a strangled oath, the venom in his voice a testament to the regime's insidious control. He’s a puppet, and the strings are held tight by the Iron Fist.
He lunges again, a whirlwind of pain-forged rage, and I parry, the clash of steel echoing through the alley like a death knell. This close- nothing can save us from the inevitable. The enforcers are upon us, their faces emotionless masks, their eyes burning with fanatic obedience. They move with the lethal grace of trained predators, their silence a testament to the regime's chilling efficiency.
He roars, a sound born of pure hatred and enforced compliance, and I taste fear, a metallic tang on my tongue. It’s a fleeting sensation, a whisper against the storm of my own rage. Fear is a luxury I can no longer afford. Not tonight. Not when the weight of a rebellion rests on my shoulders, not when the whispers of freedom echo in the hearts of the oppressed.
He drives for the kill, his blade a sliver of death in the flickering streetlight, and I see the glint of fanaticism in his eyes, the cold fire of the regime's indoctrination. He sees only the annihilation of his enemy, not the echoes of their past, the remnants of humanity he tries to bury.
He lunges, and for a heartbeat, a sliver of the man he once was flickers in his eyes - a ghost of the past, a memory of shared laughter, of stolen dreams before the regime consumed him. He hesitates, the flicker of humanity a betrayal of his enforced rage. And in that infinitesimal pause, the world tilts on its axis.
He lunges again, but this time, it's not with the cold-blooded efficiency of the Iron Fist. It's a chaotic, desperate onslaught, a primal scream of anguish and pain echoing through the alley as he cries out, “Seraph, forgive me! Forgive me!” His words are choked with agony, his blade a blur of sorrow and regret. He’s not fighting, he’s pleading for absolution.
He lunges, and instead of meeting my defenses, his arm falls limp, the blade clattering uselessly to the cobblestones. He collapses, his poisoned humanity seeping through the enforced rage, his eyes filled with a soul-wrenching sorrow that transcends the regime's control. He cries out, “Seraph, it’s not me, it’s them, the Iron Fist, they made me do it!” and in that gut-wrenching plea, the world shatters around me.
He isn't just a puppet, he's a broken marionette, his strings severed by the regime's own hand. He's a sacrifice, a pawn in their twisted game of control, and the sight of it, the raw, exposed agony, tears through the last vestiges of my anger. This isn't the fight I signed up for. This isn't about blind obedience or crushing dissent. This is about the regime’s monstrous capacity to twist and corrupt, to turn man against his own soul.
He cries out again, his voice laced with the agony of a thousand broken souls, and the enforcers converge, their faces impassive, their eyes cold and unforgiving. He pleads for mercy, for absolution, and the silence that greets his cries is the deadliest condemnation of all. The weight of his betrayal, of their complicity, crushes down on me, a revelation so profound it threatens to unravel everything.
He whispers, his voice choked with tears and pain, “Seraph, they’ll kill me. They’ll kill me both.” And in that heart-shattering confession, the truth unfolds before me like a searing shard of ice—a truth far more insidious and terrifying than any whispered prophecy of the Iron Fist's fall. He isn't just broken, he's a blueprint, a chillingly executed lesson in their methods. They don't just control, they obliterate. And tonight, I see the executioner's hand laid bare—a hand stained not with blood, but with the ashes of humanity.
He’s right. They’ll kill both of us. Not in the fiery gut-wrenching spectacle of a public execution, not in the cold-blooded efficiency of a midnight purge. No, the killing will be far more insidious, a silent annihilation that echoes through the ages. They'll kill the hope, the whispers of freedom, the flicker of rebellion in his broken eyes and with it, they’ll kill a part of me too. They'll bury both of our souls beneath the rubble of their regime, leaving nothing but the bitter taste of ashes and the silence of complicity.
And the silence is the deadliest weapon of all.