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  • You do it every night. EVERYONE is talking about it. Everyone is the dungeon master. He calls the shots. Once with His keen mind, now with His stolen loot. He used to be cool, interesting. But now, He's the biggest ass hole. He follows you everywhere. You think you finally got away from him only to meet him in a ghost town showdown. He draws faster than you.

    You're laying in the blood soaked sand, fighting a world war for each breath.

    And you realize: That dying thing, it isn't for you. It couldn't happen to you. You're a good person. You made mistakes but who doesn't? You still have years left. Death is distant. From newspapers and novels and histories, but not for you. Everyone knows it, too. You're going to get back up, dust yourself off, pick that bullet out of you and flick it back into the sand. You're going to put Everyone back in His place where He belongs. You're omnipotent. You're immortal. You're a machine.

    You're dead.
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