I have passed many times.

Not on purpose, but I have passed.

I’ve passed through white walls no questions asked. I have passed, and passed by, and passed through many times.

To pass is to be conscious of the unreality of your being, to move through time, space, and scale never full. To pass is to be intimately acquainted with the limitations of brushstrokes. To pass is to exist in an in-between, a veiled liminality.

I have passed.

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