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And it's just too fucking late anyway. By the time we wised up (or we think we do), the deal's already made, sealed.

Gloomy thoughts for an overcast morning in the diary of the undead, where we cry over out small wounds and worry about the notoriety brought about by the click of somebody's mouse.

Gloomy. Thinking of things that broke, or will break.

I'll find my way to the light sometime, even a small bulb that will warm me, for I live on the glacier.

And dodging crevasses is a full-time job.