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... work of reducing the universe to ash.
You unsightly insects fluttering about the skies, before my ambition, you hindrances are all no greater than flies.
The heavens that looked down on the red blazing sun were simply high, and a realm beyond the reach from us beings forced to crawl along the ground.
But that’s how it should be. That’s why it’s perfect.
To us, wings are… unnecessary.
We don’t need those white bonds that tied us down to some inept God.
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