i.

My eyes burn when I close them, a shimmering burning that digs in and hovers on the surface at the same time, coruscating diamonds into my wild irises. On some days it’s easy to think I exist in a multitude, a myriad of intricacies like lace-spun doilies, more delicate than spiderwebs and made with twice the stuff of gossamer and steel.

Everybody wants to be immortal in some way or another, even if they don’t want to admit it.

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