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An infinitly thin line. Slender, narrow in appearance,in touch. Divides. Conquer the thread. The competition between sheer happiness and tormentingly painful grief is unbearable. The thread of insanity weaves in and throughout the two, intertwining, connecting, supplementing them with blood and lust, chemically induced love, empty pride. You understand of the thread, and just as you learn of it, it begins to deteriorate, to fall apart in tiny, fibrous clumps. The little stringy masses float about, settle into the porous openings of the surface of the soul, cloud it is no longer free, weights it down so you can no longer refrain from thought. You can no longer enjoy the stupidity of the self, but be caught in the web of continous thought, everlasting knowingness. And it's terrifying, griefprovoking. Yet, it doesn't hurt. The peace and happiness and tranquility and pain and sadness and hate all have melded together, forming a single, consistent emotion; empathetic, godless glee.
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