Everyone who slept in the old hotel left a piece of their soul-skin there; this idea cannot be dismissed. They told me to leave the meeting at Town Hall, and I said okay, fine. They told me not to hand out my leaflets, and I soiled myself in protest. Don't you understand that God is under the earth, making Its spirals, squirming and aching. If I could paint what I see when I dream, if I could only, and if I could. What are we but a buildup of coulds.
This week's opinion was submitted by The Boar, so named because of her deformity.
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