The Golden Farce
The ink is dry. The door is locked. You are leaving. You do not look back. Looking back is for those who have not yet paid the price. You carry the satchel. It is light. It is heavy. It contains the truth. The truth is a mirror. The mirror is cracked. You hold it to your chest. It cuts your skin. You do not bleed. You are hollow. You are full. The corridor stretches. It is long. It is dark. The...
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