In time you will be reassembled. Returned as a chimera of singular elements and mutable parts, returned. This your substance; limb for wing, womb for chalice. These your hands, a magnet for a pilgrim's industrial land in a mountain of cheap code. And your mind, symbols and reams of morphological debris. But today, right now the indifferent look on your face digests the leftover coffee and toast, thumbs its way through a Sunday strip and winces unaware to a caption that reads, "Have heart."
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