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That depends on the nature of a thought's superposition... :P

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The mendacity of truth holograms.

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A train of thought arriving at Victoria’s Station.

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I do not know which to prefer,

the sweaty smell of olives,

or the sweet smell of rust,

the lilac’s breath

or newborn snow.

(after Wallace Stevens)

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She thought of the roses, felt the weight of Darren’s ring on her finger, remembered her dear grandmother’s final, whispered words: would it all be enough, she wondered, to pry sufficient courage from her heart?

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