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  • I know that you will read this and I know that you will read this.

    This will become something it never was, while this this will remain the this it was always intended to be, its true meaning missed in a sea of this, crying out to be understood in a way that only you would know, yet somehow refuse to see, the clues vast and often too far in between.

    This this will live its life thusly, while this this will become something more, something greater than it ever could have been, caught up in its own potential, its own subtle greatness for which this this will always be confused for that this which really carried the meaning I meant to share with you.

    I know you read this and I know you will read this.

    It’s just a matter of which this was truly meant for you, the missing piece in this twisted game I insist we play (though you know and love it just the same; perhaps it’s really this this we should seek to blame).

    In your mind, this this will become that this and vice versa until neither can be sure which is which and this this will soon become that this and, sensing something very much amiss, will look to that this to see if perhaps it was really this this after all.

    I know you, this I know.
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