When do you think it’s ok to admit you’ve made an irretrievable mess of your life?
At what point do you declare the game piece broken, toss it aside, and look around for a substitute — a penny, a piece of wood, a piece lifted from another game?
Must we assume that every trial ennobles everyone, or are some people born to shuffle?
Is the capacity for hope always supposed to triumph? Or are some of us supposed to be object lessons?
Dark Matter 
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