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... ars Becomes Home
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Time, when measured through the prism of psychic torment, does not flow. It writhes.
Hours passed in the crucible — though whether they were truly hours or just fractured segments of agony elongated by perception, I could not say. The psionic agitator — a faceless, formless whip of neural dominance — struck at my mental barricade with surgical violence, cracking it near to ruin, then soothing it back into place like a sadistic sculptor remolding his c ...
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