I y̮̍ear͉n fǫr the ma͝͠gma. The sweet warmth of the liquid flowing over my tendrils.
I swell and burst releasing a cloud of spores,̮ each t̾̑he̾ b̀eginn̖ing ͎̃̽of͌ ̟̪a ne͍w life.
             ̠I am conten͒t.

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