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- My eyes fell upon the birch. Its once paper-white bark was spotted with cubical rot. Was it possible? Probably not. Did I have a choice? No, I didn’t. I lowered my shoulder and rammed the tree, hoping to fell it straight atop Blocky just like the steel warehouse door. Pain exploded in my hardened colar bone as the rot-brittled trunk buckled with a deafening crack. The tree shook, angled forward . . . and held.
- -Sledge vs. The Labyrinth, pg. 183-184
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