Stop blowing down my mansion. It's made of Aces of Spades; they are made from the obituaries of Trust, so many obituaries of those I've lost, torn to ragged shreds and reformed with my spittle and blood. It is shaky, it is forlorn, but it lets in light and it promises to keep me warm.

Keep your sorry, scared breath from the fragile walls that shimmer and amplify the desperate echoes of my prayers.

Some build.
Some laugh as they destroy.
Some build again.

Some will do both, always.

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