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A curious space in a distant land coming into existence one pixelated character at a time. Another universe houses this space, its dimensions uncertain, its structure diverging. It is strange, gleefully strange, terribly strange, and you do not look like yourself. Faces wear faces and when faces come off the gloves are silk and the goat milk spills, charred flesh decaying in the ravine. There are buckets and buckets and buckets, of cream and water and death, and observing them: An old patriarch with fur that flows white as wool.

A sea wind blows over a desert dune and a mermaid winks from the flames and hyphens are entirely illegal.

This world is not. This world is.
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