Narcissus-X is accustomed to darkness, to abyssal expanses of Stygian seas beneath an obsidian sky.
Why, then, should Narcissus-X hold back? What trepidation could Narcissus-X feel? Is not experience felt by the artist, Art? Are not sensations and visions grist for the mill of the artist's mind?
Narcissus-X has danced among the toadstools of forgotten kings, glided on dark crystals across a sunless sea, beheld the Grotto of Velvet Coal.
Pythons' nest linking metal prisms, phosphorescent plane, console awaiting commands, eldritch unliving servant, too long has Narcissus-X neglected this portal to the digital abyss.
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