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There is a rotating ceiling there, a single stamped sheet with rotating spikes. Each is a pit of negative thinking, or maybe just the existence of negative things. The dark vent propels its spinning form. The edges of the landscape have no thickness, and yet it lives, full and flat, in the third dimension.

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	There is a rotating ceiling there, a single stamped sheet with rotating spikes. Each is a pit of negative thinking, or maybe just the existence of negative things. The dark wind propels its spinning form. The edges of the landscape have no thickness, and yet it lives, full and flat, in the third dimension.