Look! I wrote. My organs swell along with my head. Was that uncalled for? I called for it. I called it forth, my hands blaze with serpentine fire. I ninja the intent while I strike.
Then I begin to ponder. Had I struck with too much force? My hands curl, twisted; there is no movement. The silence brings noise. I try to follow everything.
Only one direction will not exhaust, but I’m too exhausted to follow the rich… What was my intent? I will need the fire to cauterize. It’s certainly something like that.
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