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You find a journal, it reads: "It could speak once. It needs us, or sorrow consumes It, but O! how bright! O! wings unfurl over your face and your feet and your chest in light of It. O! Such glorious luster! It illuminates flesh until It has enough. But, worry not! Love is inside of you. This is how we were meant to be. To learn that It was always in us is our greatest gift. To keep It to ourselves is sin. We all can fly, if we try hard enough." You feel an itch between your shoulder blades.