Well, here we find ourselves again. A place most familiar. Some merely visit from time to time, some trapped, others blink in and out. We find the way, occasionally, from these things, but always manage to return. Ever-searching, endlessly, for the tiniest scrap of understanding. So many are tired. Many more would abandon the task if they could. It's that rotted tooth, prodded with a swollen tongue. The splinter gone unseen, but felt against the tip...
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Poetry