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Aug. 20th, 2013 @ 09:13 pm Useless Fiction
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It was torn asunder. Literally and figuratively. Blowing through the wind, the fragments of the Book caught pieces of the fading twilight.

The majestic structure that it stood for also scattered, only held up by ideals etched in silicon and steel, suckling energy from the dying light. Trapped by ideas... held up by ideas. Structureless only possible through the structure it rejected.

But, after all, what did the Book truly say, anyway? Was it not just a feeble justification for its own existence? Yet another kind of lifeform, endlessly xeroxed by life rising from the light. The fading light...