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Summary
Prompto feels as though he's existing at the seams, the threads of his mind slowly unraveling, frayed and splint like the split ends in his hair, left dirty to the exposure of the world. He wants to stay home with his chocobos. He wants to finish developing the pictures in his makeshift darkroom. Wants to stop suddenly finding his body in new places without remembering how he got there. But the urge to completely let go, to embrace that sick, pleasant feeling that’s churning in his gut, tempts him.
