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who is worthy of this name what am I  but the universe fused and twisted into  psychosis  she spits back what I spit up  and not for one second am I  the same as I was.   
    In a mind with no terrain   A way forward is deemed impossible   Instead a cloud looms, attempting shape   Stirring itself indefinitely   As if constant flux will produce its form   Its stagnant slosh makes me nauseous   So, pained, puzzled, a
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