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March 10, 2013
Marching through the oily fogs choking our fervor, fogs stifling the collected wits we divined within the conjuring crucible, colliding the obfuscating barriers erected, taking them on by our wits wound cleverly around the hidden objects of our desires, we challenge them, goad them, beckon them to fit the ardors they arouse, for they'd love it if we stopped, denying ourselves; crouched behind the defiant screens with smiling faces goading us to stop, we plot the move ahead, we wait, we watch, then we take the step, we ignore the fizzling voices "stop, stop, stop," and we go, we fly.