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"Fingers loosen, and compassion brushes his cheek, touching and tracing until his looking glass breaks at last, and falls in shining drops.The world outside is not like his walled stage of sets and wires; it's blue and green and you'll never come to its edge. Certainly I have an unanswered question for him: where, in this imitation, did this intimation of love come from? From himself, from another? And must it have come only after the end of everything?" - Carl Gustav Horn
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