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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On the verge of sleep, the map dissolves into fog, the cartographer steps backward into the throat of the unfamiliar. He carries no lantern, only the burden of his own curiosity~ a compass spun from silence, a hunger stitched into his ribs. The trees whisper in languages he almost remembers. The wind paints equations on the backs of his eyelids. He does not seek answers. Only the echo of the question as it unravels him, thread by thread, until he is nothing but the space between stars.
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