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@#¤=/~.,,, ,,,.~/=¤#@
#@#¤=/~.,, ,,.~/=¤#@#
##@#¤=/~., ,.~/=¤#@##
#@#¤=/~.,, Now, Usually I Feel Good (Maybe?), But ,,.~/=¤#@#
@#¤=/~.,,, This Time Of Confusion Also Leads To ,,,.~/=¤#@
#¤=/~.,,,, All Analyzes Ending In "Useless" - I ,,,,.~/=¤#
¤=/~.,,,,, Was Being Bothered By Something In A ,,,,,.~/=¤
=/~.,,,,,, Song Or Movie Or Book, So I Think, How ,,,,,,.~/=
/~.,,,,,,, Would I Have Done It, What Is The ,,,,,,,.~/
~.,,,,,,,, Purpose Of This Process, What Does It ,,,,,,,,.~
.,,,,,,,,, Consist Of...? And Through The Process ,,,,,,,,,.
,,,,,,,,,, More And More Pieces Falls Off Until ,,,,,,,,,,
.,,,,,,,,, I'M Standing There With Nothing. ,,,,,,,,,.
~.,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,.~
/~.,,,,,,, Reductionist Hell - ,,,,,,,.~/
=/~.,,,,,, I Wan'T A Bottom Floor, A Concept ,,,,,,.~/=
¤=/~.,,,,, Bedrock, But The Deeper I Go The More ,,,,,.~/=¤
#¤=/~.,,,, Abstract They Are, The Things, Until ,,,,.~/=¤#
@#¤=/~.,,, They Cease To Be Things At All ,,,.~/=¤#@
#@#¤=/~.,, ,,.~/=¤#@#
##@#¤=/~., Are We Just Stacked Triangles? There Is ,.~/=¤#@##
#@#¤=/~.,, Nothing I Can Do With Triangles. They ,,.~/=¤#@#
@#¤=/~.,,, Can Not Shelter Me In Any Meaningful ,,,.~/=¤#@
#¤=/~.,,,, Sense. ,,,,.~/=¤#
¤=/~.,,,,, ,,,,,.~/=¤
=/~.,,,,,, And When I Can'T Even Anchor Myself, ,,,,,,.~/=
/~.,,,,,,, When I Am Nothing But The Question, It ,,,,,,,.~/
~.,,,,,,,, Feels Like It Can All Slip Through My ,,,,,,,,.~
.,,,,,,,,, Fingers... "Whoops", And Nothing Ever ,,,,,,,,,.
,,,,,,,,,, Was After That. ,,,,,,,,,,
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