We must not desire to obtain things of value by paying nothing for them. There is a cost to all things worth having.

You cannot recover lost seconds or souls, smashed into splintered bone, reckless, cruel and savage. A smooth stone buried in the muck pretending to be a jewel, alive and wasted beneath trees shattered by wind. Time, born from nothing, returns into the grasp of weathered breaths, alone and weak, life draining into the Earth, collecting in a pool of sticky dead goo.

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