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The margins must travel every day to the center, where the resources for life are hoarded.

They are shapeshifters who contort themselves to the space that holds them.

They try out different lifestyles, leaking precious life.

They choose the path of the freedom fall. 

 

They dig and dig and dig and dig, until they find where they are safe. The sky no longer reaches but light remains. Small fires everywhere, they gather around. In their little circles, not much needs to be said. The warmth of the fire and fever of bodies feeds their thoughts: Nothing really matters but this feeling I got, right here right now. 

 

In the morning, war cries and begs them to connect.

But time warns, not yet. Wait. 

 

Wait.

 

For what?

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