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Soft on crime pigs on shame. Shoo baby shoo. Go away!! No more of you, no more to be perturbed by, the indescribable feeling of loss goes down the tube. Down and down and down, until the low formless shapes awake, it's already too late.

In the dozen or so years that flounder and patter like a chimney swept from violent storm, there is black sand covering the avarice in my smile. Should I be there? The waking dead?