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Diversity stories about fear

I see a room.
A room protected by aggressive guards and armed with threatening weapons.
In the middle, an old man.
A very aged one, with tired eyes, but still fixed on his own hand, that is, the claw clutching the consumed pencil which he passes with hellish repetition always on and on the same stretch of the governmental drawing.
Lines and contours, full shapes and the empty ones, more than ever the paper that suits all is so worn out to implore pity and craving peace along with the past painted horrors, bravely burned in the bad times gone by.
Nevertheless, the disturbing, yet reassuring canvas is still there, it resists with cruelty, despite the hourglass being losing the last grain of dullness.
I see, I see it, like all of us, the mad design.
The world we are experiencing, and at the same time unknowingly worship.

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