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They try to contain the rivers of our brains, the product of alchemy between soul and body. They try to own, they try to sell. They try to grow our thoughts, to no avail. They cannot copy-paste people who are forests.

I keep myself almost half-dead; I hold my breath, don’t let my life expand beyond the grasp of my hands. I sense everything with a lack of oxygen. The empty tanks are sinking and me along with them. The old people in their tombs know why I’m here. I am meant to stand on the…