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Wilderness My surface is dependent on the warm air, the same air that exiles and reprises, as far as the drive to the more inferior part from me, the unpolished that is that estranged dream of fullness and crime. My eye, in which the tip of that combustion is sharp in order to force the emptiness out of the inner sense -- cracked by my foolish pride. Flexibility and competent uniformity are mine. I have acquired pride, sadism, and whim. They form the three known walls to my prison. My delusions tightened, punishment for my conceit, methodically exiling. My insolence fell that morning.