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Words make the thoughts.
Severe tyrants, like the scrubbers and guardians of your cells.
They herd your visions down the ramp to nexus waiting with sledge hammer to knock what is the knowing without knowing into knowledge.
Yes, the tight bag of grammar, syntax, the clever sidestep from babble, is a comfortable prison.
A mirror of the mirror.
And all that is uttered in its chains is locked out from the secret.

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