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These sacred halls echo with too much silence.

Iljun sighs gathering his Mem-Robe; it has a comforting hum steeling his poise.

Some of the novices have not returned; the accruance of diminishing returns, this mountain of trans-translated information from the PrimeNoom is too much for most.

Only so many can be protected from the wordplague in the year A.I. 010102 after the MetaSurf.

Touching the holiest of symbols behind his ear, the Sage exits the MS-stream.

It cannot be called a prayer, “Inana who saw.”

Stepping on the podium, he connects with the assembly.

“Which of you can still read?”

 

I challenge with "On the Porch Out Back"

Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten: Beginnings of the beginning