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This trajectory, always in motion yet doomed never to truly arrive, is irreversible. It cannot be grasped with conventional methodologies, is too large for the faculties of reason, and so remains, a false image, a sublime instance furrowing itself under my skin, like a million tiny drops conspiring to drown me out, a hematoma of my own undoing, merely circulating, breathing shallow breaths, for there no real air left to breathe. I try to resist, but the ephemeral push from this vague center is episodic at best. The directions I receive are constant, but contradictory. No real diagnosis is possible and thus No comfort, few assurances. I know it is only a matter of time. My belief approaches zero, too deeply aware of an answer, altogether void of the appropriate question.
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