#0166. My idea has been to climb ever inward. Beneath the cuticle. Under the fur. Damaging myself in bloody chunks to avoid paying the deposit. I want to be made of glass. Beautiful and azure hued glass. Smoky like you would find in a department store display case. So I do the damage inward. I build doorways and windows inside and I climb inward. Through cobwebs and debris I falter and I stumble. The rooms get ever more unpleasant and inhospitable. I am nowhere near the core and there is this dungeon. I want to whisper but my words come out as howls.
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