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Once in a while it is expedient to avail one's self of the rudimental disobedience that has defined the last century.

Drab interiors dampened the spirit which had been flickering uncertainly anyway.

Hostility, open or closed, shuts experience into a murderous self cycle of recycling, reliving, replaying, repeating.

Hope exists, taken for granted, but encouraging.

Garbled thoughts uncorked that fizz onto your screen in a manner of speaking.

Where can it go?

Up.