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When things reached a certain degree of wrongness, he was discovering, they could no longer be redeemed or turned around; they just kept going wronger and wronger.
an enormous tower constructed of dark and sooty stone, standing in a field of red roses. Slit windows twisted up its sides in a brooding spiral.
perhaps real beauty was something unrecognized by the conscious self, a work that was always in progress, a thing of being rather than seeing.
Him’s name is Roland, Mama. I dream about him, sometimes. Him’s a King, too.
