One year.
One perfect year when I did everything I ever dreamed of that I hadn’t done before.
One year so magical it felt real.
But was it? Maybe it was only borrowed time, like the stories, like Faust, like all the Sci-Fi stuff where someone sells their soul to the devil.
I wonder, what’s the devil look like? Would I even know him if he shook my hand?
Is he simply all those things we sell out to, the company store, the ennui, the greed, the anger, the passive acceptance of all that is bad?
When the magic stops, what then?
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