The station may have made her body feel lighter than usual, but such a change brought only discomfort—rather than this, of all places she’d visit, none exuded such open hostility to the human form, to the human senses, or to the very concept of non-Extali life as a whole, and it wasn’t just the lack of illumination, barely compensated by the lights she carried, but the uneven floor, covered in ridges both long and sinuous, like ripples across water, forcing her feet to bend in uncomfortable ways as she trudged onward, and it was the dizzying way shadows stretched from the perfectly patterned textures that lined the walls, and it was the way those same textures glowed bright under her light, and all this together, this kaleidoscopic swirl of distilled enmity, more than dreary, less than living, made her head spin and her stomach turn.
I love dreary, it might be one of my favorite words, which is why I try to inject it into everything and then cut it in editing.
You know what's not getting cut in editing, though? This super long and convoluted paragraph of mine.
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