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August 26, 2015
It fits, this sleeve growing into my eyes by the light of the black moon, by the heart of no heart in the tempest of the compression, how it divides away its merriment for lamentation is the crux of being aware of being dead while being alive, to reverse the course matriculation, to enter the sanctum of the core where nothing becomes everything on an infinitesimal point encompassing all, that all of us might see if we could hazard the edge of edges that has no abyss or summit attendant but the matters of all that exists in the void.