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TWO HUNDRED FIVE: Herdcreatures III
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TWO HUNDRED SEVEN: Hit Me With It
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... The roiling substance that was not water, that was not substance, the threat—it pulled the sand from beneath your feet, pressed against you, promised that you would learn you were only a more stubborn grain. The erosion would eventually take you, too.
The artist had painted that.
And shadows. Lifeforms that had been stubborn in their own ways were now broken, the chaos bleeding from the fractures between what should have, could have been and what was and was changing.
Ald ...
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