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The Mere Tide

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  #121  
Old 05-16-2017, 09:24 AM
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A week later upon road windswept and plumb of rumor and weathers unseasonable. Road pricked with splinters where had gone wagonwheel and the shod. Scuffed under hoof and nicked by claw. Its snowmelt filled potholes floating tiny icebergs on their filthy tides. Across it to the north low hills, a braided channel land. A gulch atimes dry, atimes running a thin stream of tawny water. Empty hamlets in places where none aught ever have settled and enviable localities also desolate. In these places were no sign of war nor disease and Dachni supposed the neuter vacancy bruit of forces as yet unseen. Neither this unusual and she was welcome to walk in the solitude of its wake and yet upon the basin near Sarsay she was come upon an itinerant of that land.

Cautelous scion of precincts remoter than these bespoken badlands and prone to the dissemination of heretica and whom to say where these regions be that propagate aberrations. Dachni watched his brated ambulance. He wore a free flowing black toga and tubes were running out the opening of his robe into his brain and his mangled hands trembled about his sky turned face as if he were the overloaded conduit of portents terrifying and obscene. Behind him he left a dark trail like an ooze and he muttered grimly. He seemed not to see the child and as he approached she stepped aside to let him pass. He hobbled a few yards more on his twissled limbs and succumbed to his knees.

Fliehen! Fliehen! Der Abgrund ist offen. Sie überschwemmen aus der Erde. Sie brachten ihnen, den aienee. Die Welt wird im Blut ertrinken. Folge ihm nicht. Er ruft sie von der Erde, die er ihnen hinschickt.

Hey.

Intermit to these mad ravings. The madman kneeled round and looked at her. Dachni smiled uneasily. A dark nebula was spreading from him and when she looked he gripped his raiment and tore it open. Inside hung dozens of blood packets. The drip chambers full and draining down the tubes into the earth or else into his every vein, his catheterized scalp and his infused testes.

Ok, said Dachni backing away. Ok. So is goodbyes. Byesbyebyes.

The madman groaned.

She pointed behind him where the dark encroached and he swung round as if fearing abominations hailed from elsewhere other than the sunless barathrum out which he'd ejected to claim his soul. Träger des Kreuzes. He swung round again, his knees sliding in the blood mire, and put forward his hands in a ward as if towards some lunar malignancy instantiate. As if that fabled leviathan so hunted cross the liquid circumference had by emaciation and horror been distilled into a starved malevolence twisted and scourged or else some stigmatic diablo spawned out the corrupted ciphering of a system wholly alien to the natural order of things.

They held no commerce further the child and this venipunctured prophet and she eloigned of him towards evening and there far removed listened to the surf sough of their shadows in their tides of the sun at fail, the sun at rise and occlusion contemplating the pilot and her intersection into her apophatic journeys.

It rained. Soft rain like cold fire in the wind. The child slogged through mud made mobile. A constant lapping at her ankles. That with misstep in channel floated her gently to a sink out which she labored. Another hour and she was bivouacked between two cypresses rooted in the bank of a ravine. From the cabin she had a book of matches and a jelly jar of gasoline siphoned out the hatchback by judiciousness saved for the abatement of just such weathers. She gathered kindling and in the hollow of the cypress arranged it carefully for the dryness there but when she uncapped the jar and tilted it what poured forth was a grimy sludge. She adjusted the lamp to better see. Mud. She tore a match from the book and struck it. A brief flare she put to. A blue nebula bubbled out of the slime and died. Her countenance fell. Teeth grit and fists clapping against her ears. She held the lamp to the jar to see the sandy brown solution within. She shook her body side to side and then she poured the whole thing over the kindling and ripped the matches from their book and lit them and set their ends to the kindling. A stillborn light sprung up and miscarried off the sticks. She shut her eyes and bit the heel of her hand.

Thass not fair. Isnt too much. It isnt too much to ask.

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  #122  
Old 05-16-2017, 08:14 PM
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I'm done waiting for you to fuck up. Looks like you're not going to.

Now... to get you to write faster😆
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  #123  
Old 05-17-2017, 10:09 AM
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I dont think I can write faster than I do. In fact I should like to write slower. Its not contractual work after all and Im not waged by the hour. I used to attend writers groups, still attend one but we imbibe and talk about anything but writing. Often I try to come up with the vilest song titles I can. As a bonus out styles are so disparate we hate everything each other writes.

But when I went to other writing groups I found the preemptive and final defense put forward against critique was some permutation of: Well I wrote this in ten minutes. I doubt anyone ever bought that. I certainly didnt. But allowed the lie out of necessity for when someone else would need employ it. But reconsidering this I think there were more than a few cases when the author was telling truth. That for ten minutes the muse had possessed them and that what flowed out was sufficient. It never is. The muse is a filthy whore whom will couple with a hog. Those too having dreams. People oft acknowledge that writing is toilsome but speaking and believing and understanding are distinct ontological categories.

At these masses during the homily when the author watched the faces of his readership I watched the author. What I invariably saw was arrogance crumbling. The idea that the rules apply to all save me. That I was in the end not special. Its not hard to read this in the face. The transformation is unmistakable. The slouch of the shoulders, the guardedness, the sudden epidemic of tics. Our digital predilection for instantaneous response is a plague. Instant validation arrives with the specter of instant condemnation. I dont think one is more destructive than the other. The former inflates the ego to preposterous dimensions, the latter squashes it. It seems inevitable that this would infect every aspect of life. From books to relationship to cooking. People not being good at statistics. It seems a perverse indictment of the educational system that folk play the lottery but fear sharks. Likewise the hope that the first thing one puts to pad is ready to publish without work.
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  #124  
Old 05-22-2017, 02:00 AM
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In the dawn they were not yet noise. An aural shadow, an irritation in the little snow let down by a sky of iron cast uniformity. Something as yet uncast. A subtle undercurrent that with the ceaseless rotary motion of the spheres burgeoned into an indistinct mass transmitting across the plain its mass. Fine grains were unsettled from their places. Branches shook. The first to be parceled out of that growing clangor were engines. Then lowing. The sounds of animals. An inharmonious conglomerate of human voices. A pandemonious sennet that with a lift of fog became in a rusty cloak of dust Americans driving a motley herd of chattel across the wintering plains. Thousands. Perhaps ten thousand. More man than beast but cattle aplenty and mules and other stock and no proper sorting save a few osmotic pockets favored by the species. Columns of long tracked twelve tons trundled along the flanks and pale horsemen darting between them mending the darker chained trunk of the herd and others of their disposition swaggering afoot like hominidic cats regarding all with a casual dire.

Dachni in her cypress eyrie shrunk. Procession evoked out of the ages by curse return to the ages. Go by go by. Peletons of driverless tractors lumbered accessorial harrowers forks scrapers cutters rakes raised as if in salute. One leading a train of the unruly, their yoke chain hooked to a rotary tiller to deter uprisings. They slowed to cross the bridge upriver and the footmen fanned out. To point and call and come her way. She drew up her knees. No hurry imbued them nor concern and they stopped on the far side of the ravine and helloed her.


Hidy, she said.

What?

Dachni uncovered her face and lifted her chin above her knees. Hidy.

Are you American?

Issint et.

When are you gonna be?

When comes to armyin. Isnt that their say? Ye army an ye get creditals.

Thats what they say, said the man.

Come down.

The man who called was a clone of Corrigan. Tall and rough looking, unraveled of the same genetic code, this issue tattooed and through the brass bullring he wore in his nose hung a curtain of leather strips in which teeth were spliced.

Kinder wanted ta keep ear a bit, she said.

What?

Said wanted ta keep loned whiles.

I know you. Come down.

Never seed ye afore.

Corrigan spat. His impatience settled upon the nearest man and this man moved towards the shore.

Dachni stood. She looked at the ground and hugged the trunk and climbed down and gathered her things from the hollow and studied the ravine for a place to cross and upon stones painted with the shells of turtles crossed. They walked back to the drive. A radio was clipped to Corrigan's shirt and he pushed to talk. Stop her, he said.

Over, said Dachni.

He looked down at her.

Post to say over.

On the road the manacled shuffling was rising to a blaring permutation of din. The drivers laughing, waving their hats as those in victory. Some on foot hewing the herd with sheer pride and others who soldered their breaches with whips, some electric whips that crackled like thunder in the hand, moving among the dark tide as if through a tamed sea. The trucks slurred off road spraying clump ways of mud. Packmules were arrested by their longears and unloaded. Troubadours danced by in motley and mock pomp juggling their coxcombs to enliven the morbid courtesans failing to keep their dresses unstained. Paladins of the Scottish Rite in gothic power armor planted their reliquary within dueling distance of the blistered acolytes of Hectavasad who by their evangelizing had emptied the mankind of old with all his dusty tomes into his mortar and grounded them to dust with his mighty pestle and sucking out the breath of life set them new upon the face of this fresh hell, the times indeed changing. Came vinters. Came victuallers. Meat wagons where swarms of carnivorous wasps darted angrily out their paper nests between the spokes. Husbandmen and tillers and the hackers of wood, the porters of water, and paleontologists transporting enormous skeletons like the drastic issue of Kottos or Briareus. Herdsmen shepherding flocks, erecting paddocks, corrals. Swans rose and snapped back at the end of their tethers, the wings slapping each other down in their search for current, the uppermost veering as if ensnared in the lines of a gyre and colliding with another before crashing down again. Two tanks shed their cloaks like rain and charged forward, their barrels Boaz and Jachin wanding over the columns as if ensorcelling them and drummers aboard beating their numbers upon the hatches and now composer and ensemble trumpeting to the delight of fickle demimondes cuckolding a quartet who hats in hands endured their scorn and the labors of an army of shoeshiners who migrated boot to shoe to blucher in hope of coin like ants and elsewhere carpenters and elsewhere blacksmiths upshopped for queues already forming and a barber throwing down his chair sat a customer whose locks he had been shearing walking. Feed was spread for cattle and chattel and burnt offerings were made upon portable altars and alterchrists were crucified and posted outboard to bay the vengeful wroth of the insatiable spirit of god. Servants dashed to every to, every fro and by their efforts mazes of metals rose draped in canvas, huge ratty tents, one having as frame the bones of dinosaurs and whales, the ribbed spine set between the massive knobs of vestigial femurs capped by a furrowed brow with skulls rung round and the whole of it armatured in human skins all rising amidst rising masts unfurling their black gallants like a carnival metastasizing in a waste.

In the belly of that ossified chimera Dachni and Corrigan sat on stools around a space heater watching the mayhem outside.

Corrigan swung up a tobacco pouch and clenched it in his teeth and rolled two cigarettes and lit them. His proffer she took. Sweet smoke to breathe.

Can ye spare that book?

He could.

She ripped out a match and scraped her thumb over the head but it didnt ignite. She tried again and again and then she raked it against the coarse strip in a fright of fire that trembled down the stick towards her nails. Blackened them. When she looked up Corrigan was holding out a necklace of painted teeth.

Its yours.

Never lost sech a thing.

Corrigan watched her tiredly. He took another draw on his cigarette and draped the necklace on her knee. Dachni didnt touch it. She looked outside at a passing upholsterer hugging pillows. A naked spearman clutching his jeans. A computer technician. Beyond them all the blacks.

Iss is stock drive, she said.

Corrigan exhaled through his nostrils a blue smoke that seeped through the leather chords like a mist and the muscles in his neck strained and the smoke was sucked away.

You look like you were fed through a meat grinder.
Her gaze dropped to the asphalt. Cracked and rough feeling bumpmap. Theys no easies. She smoked and shook her head. Nevered seen ye afore.

Never said you had. I said Id seen you.

Oh. Was it now? By the river?

No.

Corrigan took a last drag on his cigarette and rubbed the stub of it out on his bootheel and rolled another.

Do you have a map?

Sorted of.

Lets see it.

She rummaged through her rucksack and got out the map. He leaned across the space between them and took it and produced a second map of his own and hooked a wire between them.

Whatre doin?

Installing a program.

Ye mean like a Temple?

He didnt say. He navigated the options on the screen and then he just stared at it until it chimed whereupon he disconnected the maps and handed hers back.

Here.

She spread the map in her lap. Floating over an empty spanse forty miles southwest of Uralsk near a lake was an icon. Different colored lines announced the routes most favorable to reaching the destination and they were none more than a week away.

What is this? she whispered.

She touched the icon and the map zoomed in on a structure in all that emptiness. A church. The necklace slipped from her knee and she stared at it where it had pooled before her bootsole.

Now what? she said.

Stay here the night.

Is morning.

Were camped.


Can ye make a fire?

I can do that.

Can ye do it now?

He could. Gravel fire of gentle hypnosis. Warm on the hands. Channeling down their scars as if they were veins for warmth. The hours passed calm and slack. The noise outside subdued but for a wind that shrieked snow across the plain and rippled the walls of their shelter like water. Others entered and arrayed themselves around the fire. Someone grounded coffee beans with a jasper doorknob. He poured them into a strainer and took up a kettle and flowed the water through them. An older man lit cinnamon incense. Dachni drowsing wrapped in a cashmere blanket like a bride. Someone was recounting his adventures in the cold jungle wonderland of Argentina. He told them how revolutionaries had fished his eye out with a j-hook. How he watched in the unpreserving shade it prune in his palm.

I quit that year. Chartered a ferry to Charleston much of it as there is and hiked from 26 to 40 and ended up in Knoxville. The queerest thing I ever saw were these mannequins all along Gay. I camped in the collapse of a department store and those things were staring at me. There were square dancers in the parking lot and a tagger had painted silhouettes in the spaces that moved and I swear it was them that cast the dancers.

Lively times, said the old man.

Course I nearly died there too. Cause in the morning those sure werent mannequins. Was a fishermen saved me by the sole of my shoes.

Whyd ye come back?

Back where?

To drivin.

To workin for Bethel?

Ifn its him does drive.

I have to think about that.

The room brightened. They all looked. A kyphotic pantryman gray of beard and bent of bone hobbled in with six poorly clad menials. What they brought was a suckled pig roasted round by blutworst and mashed potatoes drenched in gravy and biscuits and loaves of sourdough buttered and dashed with garlic. There was sauteed trout served on beds of pilaf and lobster and cutlets and corn and apples and tangerines and wines from Moldova and beers from Germany. Last of all a roasted pig dressed in a dirndl, fitted with a blond wig and spectacles.

Dachni watched the men gravitate towards the banquet with her knees drawn and her thumbs flat against her lips. All these stuffs never seen before. Never rumored before. Corrigan beckoned.

Even you, he said.

No hyena eating here. But what first? A lobster tail might contain treasures. She chewed on the tail but it didnt taste good.

The one eyed man took the lobster from her and pulled it in two and gave it back to her.

Thats roe, he said.

Dachni looked at the discolored goo towards which he pointed. She lapped it up and it was delicious. Next he cracked open the tail. Wrinkled white meat the color of snow. She hadnt thought she'd need be taught how to eat. He dipped the meat in a saucer of lemon juice then in clarified butter and gave it to her. She ate it and then she was hording the lobsters upon her plate and then in guilt redistributing them to all. Outside a boy was staring through the entrance and when he saw her notice he went away.

Did ye ever have your say?

I always have my say.

Ons how ye were for back here.

That. Well. I managed to get home. I lived in Washington State. I should have waited for a boat to Texas or Cali but I couldnt. I couldnt. I was done. When I got home I saw my parents but we really couldnt talk and they didnt know want to know where Id been. Id been gone three years. I lived in a suburbs outside Seattle. I got work in a kitchen. But the truth is all that time Id been moving West Id been watching the sun every night going down and. It looked like the apocalypse. Theres not a lot of government anywhere. I couldnt talk to anyone. I wanted to talk to people but I couldnt. I sat in bars a lot. I met a girl I went to school with but she was married. I was pretty jealous of that. I can say that now. I couldnt say it then. When I heard Bethel was in port I signed back up. I didnt feel comfortable around people. I didnt feel comfortable alone. After work I sat at home. I drank a lot. Everyone was getting married or getting pregnant and then getting married.

Where yall goin?

Almaty.

She nibbled at the cutlet. Ta sell them niggers.

Corrigan shook his head. No. Theyve been bought. This is a shipment.

Thass a whole lot to bought? All of em?

Most of them.

Theys machines was murkin ta buy people. Theys pertied far ways walkwise but said cause lookin.

Corrigan wiped his mouth and wiped his fingers on his shirt. Show me where?

Dachni got out her map. Its by the bridge at the next big river. She fingerdrew the letters in the dirt before the fire. Thass whats blue by the river inva map an its at its bridge.

Ok, said Corrigan.

Hey they has flyboats maybe ee can borrow em. Itchel git ye round faster.

Were good with what we have.

Dachni pulled the skin off a trout and mulled it idly. What kinda work would they need em for? Them slavies.

Corrigan tore off a piece of bread and dunked it in a cup of olive oil. Not labor.

She shook her head and the skin flapped about like a dog tongue. Whab den?

Im delivering this to the Pross Institute for Biological Studies. So you tell me.

Dachni made a strange bobbing shrugging motion and then slurped down the skin. Wouldnt know to tell.

They wont be used for labor.

Are you all Americans?

Yes.

Are yall fightin?

Theres no war.

But theres gonna be.

Yes but I wont be fighting it.

Hows no?

Ill have errands.

She looked at her friend. An you?

He brushed back his hair. No. No. Im lonely. Not suicidal.

At the conclusion of the feast Dachni kicking round asked were any slaves for sale and Corrigan picking his teeth with a jag said he had said there were.

But gratis is yours.

Hows that?

Free.

Dachni threw her arms in the air and twirled with a laugh. Wells bugs on you!
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  #125  
Old 05-28-2017, 01:21 PM
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They turned out to survey that groaning mass huddled on the asphalt. A sable sea to be picked through and frowned at.
Has ye got no lilns? Or knows. Any whites?

He did. A rangy waif thief bright blond among kin. Dachni squatted and poked her in the shoulder and the waif withered under her touch.

Whatns yer name?

The waif said not neither the father in whose arms she was encompassed.

She poked the side of her nose. Сенің атың кім?

Did you just talk Kazakh to her? said Corrigan.

Whats wrong talkin as that?

Theyre Swedes.

So?

So then they speak Swedish.

Hrmm. She prodded the waif further and rose. Reckon its no too big matter. Thissel do. But needs to find a name so Persla.

Corrigan ordered the extrication of the waif and when the hand of the guard touched to her that hand was grabbed and a fist curved out and stretched him flat. An oak tree of a paterfamilias rose to receive a charge of guards. He caught a billy club in its descent and dragged its wielder down. Another slapstick thwarted him and his brow folded over his eye. He swung and the guard he held went down. His sons now too were engaged and one of them fell clutching a knee and the other was biting the arm choking him. His father lurched over them and the arm went slack. Then the father dropped. He twitched on the ground and the son threw himself at the man who had tasered him and was electrocuted himself and then the father was up again and he took the man with the taser and crumpled him to his knees with the flat of his hands as if he were a doll. And then he was down again by a slapstick smartly. The waif cried beside her bleeding mother and Dachni came and collected her and looked at the scene.

Hell was that.

What do you think? said Corrigan.

Hasnt knowed. What is it?

Theyre family.

Dachni's face gave a strange twitch. She considered the waif anew. Sobbing blindly. Cheek swelling for a wayward blow. She looked at her kin who were still not quite subdued.

Well, she said. Well. Mebee it aint tove right ta say em bye.

She released the waif and she dashed into her father's arms. She looked at Corrigan.

You said them isnt gonna used for work. Can ye let them off? How much would it be for them?

They didnt cost me anything. I didnt even know we had them.

Howd ye get them then?

Corrigan regarded his recovering guards. Who got these guys?

Slatchel.

Corrigan spoke into his radio. Slatchel.

Yeah?

I have Swedes. Where did I get them?

I didnt get any Swedes.

Do you know who did?

No.

He regarded the Swedes where they had regrouped to put up a new defense.

Theyre not billed for anyone. Does anyone here speak Swedish?

None did. He snapped his fingers for the attentions of the family and gestured that they aught quickly disappear of his sight. They looked about uncertainly and he hissed at them and they stood and began to extricate themselves from the herd.

They aint got nothin of an outfit, said Dachni.

But they have their freedom.

Shoot. Hold on.

She dug in her pockets for her coinpurse and upended it into a pocket of the father as he passed.

Sorry for ye to get all busted up over that.

The father made the slightest nod of wary gratitude and then hurried his family out. He kept looking back as if this windfall emancipation might suddenly be reneged but it was not and soon they were small in the country.

Shitty shit, said Dachni.

That sizes it, said Corrigan.

Maybe grab a buddy else. Pay this one.

You dont have to pay.

No?

Its fine.

Dachni twirled afore to face him with hands clasped behind her and a little bow. Hey yer purtied nice.

Dont thank me.

Yer thanked anywoobs.

They moved on. In their search for whites they found Russians she said might do. Slavs of rancorous demeanor and a few phossy jawed expats. Two sisters. High cheekboned brunettes.

Theyre kinder tall. Maybe tads younger?

He had one so. A stripling of about seven years.

Ye hasnt a red hairded one does ye?

Corrigan looked at her with a kind of disbelief. He said he didnt believe it.

Nah redded heads isnt secret. Seen two afore.

You want to nail one of these girls.

Nail?

You want to slip it to them.

Wha?

You wanna fuck one of these girls.

Scarlet turned the child and gaze to be anywhere but on him. Nobe! she blurted. Thass the...no no. Thass grosser an ell an note.

Corrigan tucked his fingertips into his backpockets and surveyed his cargo. Whatever you say. I can scrounge up a red head somewhere.

Esnt no need to be of red head or girl or boy or anythin or nothin twas jess an ask.

Its your decision.

Just take that goddamn one.

He followed the careless jamming of her finger to a black boy sitting in his rags. Take whoever you want, he said.

She stalked off with a wave of the hand. Thatns fine.

He shrugged grinning. Alright.

The guards sallied forth again and they wrenched the boy to his feet and the mother of him fell howling upon her face and the father moaned and beat his head with his fists while the niggers other watched with a haughty impassiveness.

Retiring to the tent they found it further furnished with sleeping mats made up. The remains of the feast had been boxed. She yawned hugely.

Wurbermurber.

Dont go to bed yet, theres more.

Dachni broke out into a circling run that saw her compass the room twice ere a front roll that sat her upright. Ok.

Youre a weird one, said Corrigan.

Ok.

Among the new furnishings was a baggage trunk and Corrigan opened it and took out a fur jacket.

Try this on, he said hand it to her.

She took the jacket and held it out to study the workmanship. It was fashioned out of a liver roan wolf pelt. Rich the longhairs and slick the short. She unbuttoned the front and slid her arms into the sleeves and threw on the hood that was its head and looked down. The jacket was bigger than her by twice but there were buttons for the cuffs to be pinned back and likewise the hem that brushed about her feet. There was a fullsize mirror by the trunk and she looked at herself in a bewildered awe.

Whered this come from?

Corrigan didnt say.

She wiped the new beads of sweat from her frontlet. Boy ye could get hot in hell in this.

He lifted out other things. A pair of infantry combat boots with fox fur lining along the wells and leather cavalry gloves with silk inlinings and gold studded belts and silk shirts and undershirts of tailorship that would put a king to envy. Until Dachni ran forward with arms straight out and slapped at his hands to keep from the production of other articles.

She covered her face and shook her body from the waist up side to side. No. No. Nonono. Ye caint. No. No.

Corrigan closed the trunk and sat on it.

She clapped her hands to her forehead and looked at the clothes. Dont dont dont.

Corrigan was rolling another cigarette. Youll figure it out.
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  #126  
Old 05-28-2017, 03:42 PM
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Yer thanked anywoobs—LOL
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  #127  
Old Yesterday, 04:13 AM
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She'd quit that if she could.
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