[If you write later, please quote the original text first]
When Kurapika thought of this sentence, he had already lived most of his life as neither a human nor a ghost.
——Fuck God, that unlucky angel was thrown down because he talked back to God, you bastard.
He used the long nails of his right hand to turn the music to amazing grace, trying to soothe the backflowing blood vessels with the calm voice of a female voice, but he failed in the end. The proof was that the hand he used to light the cigarette was still shaking. The flame on the Bolton brass lighter flickered violently, illuminating Kurapika's face as white as the white paper on the wall.
He felt like swearing again.