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plentiful;

Those strange little compartments we have marked by code and rows in our hearts, those reserves for the trust we instill in others, and it’s a strange thing.
Because you think those gated iron crates are impregnable, sold in indestructible security, and so you leave those hushed secrets and buried memories in there, so convinced that nothing could possibly ever happen…
But then things spiral out of control, and when you check on those safes again, fumble nervously with the combination on the plastic dial that all of a sudden seems to small for your gigantic fingers, and swing that plated door open, you find it eerily empty, void of all the faith you put in various souls of different multitudes…
And suddenly, you see something you’ve never caught on before—you were so busy putting your priceless treasures in, you never noticed the bottom of the safe tremble under the weight and then split apart and give way to gravity and inertia, letting those oracles slip through the black door of unpredictability, off to spread everywhere and leave you robbed and ruined.





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