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Jade Chips
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In the safety of my home, I treat my wounds.
But there is always more to do. The wheel keeps turning.
It turns me, forever.
The injury teaches me to bring armor next time.
I pretend nothing else: It is only a delay of the inevitable. We are none of us permanent. We're temporary.
Stories reaching their inevitable end.
Books going out of print.
And this turning wheel, it's never-ending.
Same old story.
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