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Against the darkening sky she labors. Each strand, a masterwork of design, glistening in the dying light. A billion separate modifications to make a miracle. The strands are her lifeline. Her investment into this bitter world. She will endeavor for hours to create this. Her web. Her art. Inevitably, some abject and clumsy creature will plunge through this opus. Tearing the strands from each other and ripping hope from its walls. And there, amidst the blackness and the despair, she will begin again.

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