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Lacking the will to live, I dropped onto the scarlet counterpane and watched as my feathering hair settled
over my eyes. Ruined. There was no craving for death; it was merely a lack of craving for anything, even life. Bare shoulders,
hinting yet at the gold of the summer suns, wrestled with themselves and the endless ache beneath me; I disregarded them.
Slowly, my stocking feet brushed over the faintest, upward grasp of the blushing carpet. They were resolved to swing, although
the motion strained any number of weary, weary muscles. At least the counterpane was scarlet. A hundred years ago, I insisted
on speculating, it would have never been this way. Perhaps I might have Felt so, but the sensation would be simpler, less
affected. Bronzy curtains only suggested to hide the Universe's mottled fresco; all of it throbbing between the spidery windows
of a wirey silhouette.
The Life of Art; The Art of Life
Ambitions
Visions
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