As I recall – I was reading Jean M. Auel and Bradbury when I wrote this.
Wrapped in a smooth velour blanket, her goose bumped skin cool to the touch, she bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her warm breath heated the tent of comforting softness and she imagined a world where opinions weren’t people’s facts, where bias and tiny world-views weren’t the end of the story. She entered the dark alcove she had created and let the garden of paranoia beyond the door of her room slide away.
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