Every time I've not been able to tell a part of my story in its fullest, truest form, I've felt violent. Violently ill, anxious, angry, sorrowful, quieted. Like I'm muzzled, and thrashing against my bindings. Grief is / can be a violent thing. This grief, which I've often doused in spite, gets me to work harder. I start working on experiments. Cloaking …
© 2024 Syar S. Alia
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