The abstract axe chips away at fallacy,
The dynamite drug unearths new thoughts,
The shimmer of truth is hewn into language,
The infection spreads.
Some sicken, some strengthen,
In some it evolves and devolves again.
Some make poor hosts, others foster children,
Some birth, some adopt.
My progeny are numerous.
My disease has spread far.
It is all I have.
And yet -- is it not all we all have?
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