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Threads on the lampshade, spun long ago, dim in shadows of subdued light. Full in the darkened den, long-forgotten treasures, congealed with layers of accumulated dust. Snarled like the knotty pine, mirroring the room, echoing lackluster passion. Habits and clutter fit one another, invisible fibers have me bound. A burl-like existence, a tainted blemish to some, epitomizes my beauty. Dreams, dashed by disaster, weathering difficult spans, now is the time for repose. False comfort accepted and rightly adopted, confirm a frayed subsistence.
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