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Literature Text

One more and it will cease to be.
Extraneous, intangible matter.
Making less sense with every exhale.
And yet with each breath,
I suffer consequences I can barely remember.
Abstract notions left wanton and pale.
In the softly burning sunlight; I am cold.  
Blue irises choking pupils to a pinpoint.
Will I learn,
from this story, if it is never told?
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