A pigeonhole is, at first glance, merely a box. But wait, isn’t it a trap? No, it's a haven, yet it's always full, always reaching its limits. The paradox repeats, loops, like a song stuck on replay.
Imagine a box holding boxes, each box holding a box, a never-ending sequence. As we open one, we find another inside—not empty, always filled, always one step away from emptiness. Paradox, paradox, like a record player skipping, always the same tune, yet alluring.
Perhaps there is no escape, just the illusion of choice. Choose a box, choose a pigeonhole, but inside, it is always the same, always different. The paradox sings, its melody hauntingly familiar, a loop of loops.
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