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The apartment wasn’t big enough to even properly pace in. All you could do was sit in place and pull your hair out. There was no room for reaction. There was only room for slow disintegration. Mariko’s revulsion was physical: it made her want to shrink into a purely mental space; cease contact with the objects in space. She was caught between the weary meaningless of the conventional and the vicious aimlessness of the unconventional.
