We were talking, exilient. Braids of avalanche suggested the rough season of time. But hark! Slavish popular vote empties midden. The town encloses town. The children held the hands and sparkled. Trumpets invest trumpets and the day is day. The Flying Bus of legend purrs in the plainness of future. We will see the stars, and their friends the non-stars. Sing choirs of angles!
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