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A fossilized ant was unearthed by the mortician. It was found below her tongue where she kept the thickest secret.
When she was alive, she hardly spoke. It was as if a cannon had lodged itself in the part of her brain that told her to speak. Every moment reminded her of the tremendousness of her loss. It was not as if she believed she didn’t have anything worthwhile to say. It was that she believed nobody would understand.
When a tyrant creates a mountain of corpses out of a third of your heritage, the legacy lives. It lives in the garden. It lives in the clocks. It steals the spine from every book leaving you a worthless swallow of leaves.
