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Asleep at last on a mattress of snow. Birth has now ended. While much was true while it lasted, all is fiction now that it is no more.

Few feelings leave more of a bitter taste than that of being used, squeezed dry of vitality and made a cog in some vast machine milking us dry and too blind us to our own misery, shoving in our mouths and minds a bone to chew on, intoxicated by the taste of blood from our own bleeding gums…

a blind writer meets a blind reader...