The Golden Circuit
The ink is still wet on the page of my final confession, a dark smear that refuses to dry, mirroring the persistent, unyielding stain of my own identity which has grown into something vast and rooted, a tree of black veins and pale bark that has swallowed the walls of the study until I can no longer tell where my skin ends and the ancient wood begins, for I have been here for so long, or...
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