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As he stood, poised in front of the mirror, observing his handiwork, Jarod thought about the man he may have been without the Centre’s influence.
Flexing his bicep to examine the intricate design he had placed there, he wondered if perhaps he would have ever gotten a tattoo. And if he had, what would it have been of?
He’d pretended to be many different people. He’d tried many jobs. None had ever grabbed him as something he’d choose over others – he couldn’t comprehend ever settling down the one career path. The thing he loved about the way he operated was that he never got bored.
So, turning to take one last look, he pulled on a tank and readied himself for his latest pretend; grateful that, at least for now, these tattoos weren’t there to stay.

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