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In the cult of personality there are two ideas: rules painted over then scrubbed for days, a constant hum of consonant haze. The religion of duality is different, you see: it means you hold onto half of me. I soldier on, to fail is to fold on a sure thing.
In the entry room there are two chairs, frayed and unoccupied, been so for a long time, beside them stacks of papers to the ceiling, saved as healing but now stealing a sense of dissent as ink evaporates and coats the walls. Extrapolate and think about the cause.
