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The Wall         
        Suddenly everything
seemed a little simpler.  Neurosis was a matter of, paradoxically,
overanalyzation and lack of true attention.  It was so much
easier to hold up the sign that said "Truth"than
it was to be melancholy about some lost abstraction, now dissipating
in the vagaries of times swirling mists.  
        Some voice
mentioned that this might be a temporary lull, a transitory happiness.
 The result is merely laughter, for the voice of the sabateur
is both right and wrong.  Even the bittersweet knowledge
of the constant changing and morphing of all things is tempered
by a certain peace that comes from being able to see the right
and wrong converse with eachother coherently.  Their dialogue
is colorful in its stark black and white.  They exchange
points of view as two fencers might, the tips of the foils hardly
nicking flesh as they strike home.  This is an exercise of
faith, one that does not injure yet impresses the soul deeply.
          In some
other compartment of consciousness, the mirror spins as the black
robed mage wages a lethal battle.  No matter who "wins"the
fight, he will still be there, staring down those glowing orbs
of fire.  Maybe at the end of this battle he will no longer
stare, but stand quietly, and soon he too may disappear.
- Awe
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