Yet I go on. Trading in kilobytes, adrift, an ocean of pixels swimming with captive life spread before me, a million gifts, daughters of her tradition, this men have slaughtered other men to have, when all they really want lies within. Fathoming this is tricky arithmetic, no anchor twain living indifference and some other shoreline, the geography of her, my skills at description will prove flat, imagine a world other than that your hands have held and live there. Imagine a world in which you remember each face, in which to bear witness, you are not the appointed perjurer, but must tell instead your portion of the truth, I was snatched and cannot remember more than that. I was only doing what I was told. I want to go back home now, I do. This drifting ship’s hold is tight, piracy, its trade. Flesh, my cold currency, is good, not gold, and gave.
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