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On the red-eye from Seattle, a two year-old his little guts out. Instead of dreaming into his mouth, I envy him, how he lets a pipeline into the fields of ache, tap before the lady beside me dropped into the puddle of me? How many joined in? Soon the stewardess hunched into the controls, the entire plane, an arrow of grief, quivering through the sky.
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The milk will be good until October 7th.
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Please: be kind to boners. Nothing |