Title: Optional

Text: There's no flower in this world more beautiful than an artificial one. That's because everything is manufactured from lies. The rain of despair pelts my umbrella and dampens my bangs and the hidden side of my heart. Oh, it's all so troublesome. Before I knew it, the words had already withered. The fruit of the truth is ripening within me, painting lies upon the mirror's reflection, a "makeup" of the loss of oneself. Let's play a game where we count all the riddles. Each paragraph will be a test.

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