Title: Optional

Text: In the conquest for solace we mix one antidote after another, finding no respite in the combinations. At this point we have turned ourselves into alchemists toying with all the possibilities. We should be kings, when power chooses power. Blood decides the fate of blood. Instead we wrap ourselves in myth dwellings, dreams of something else. Polluting our minds with dreams and tonics. Each paragraph will be a test.

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