1578 5 3
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“Get ya hands outta there, ya filthy old cunt!” I look up, his distorted face hurling more abuse.
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100
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He collected beliefs like butterflies. Pinned in place, proudly displayed and protected from change. They were as ephemeral as a desert mirage. Spectral forms in shimmering light. Images traced in sand with the wind blowing. He held them dear, only to see them…
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