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19:00, 30 Nov 2014
She wore her skin like chalk on stone. It was her face but she was detached and numb to it's expressions. It's reflection shared no symmetry to her soul, it's characteristics no more than signposts. She waits endlessly to feel like a refined cohesive product, but is worn down by the anticipation of something better. The denied presence of knowledge that acceptance is the only end to this road lurks. How does she move on? How does new begin?