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The house is too quiet. Silence drapes around your couch, the TV, the credenza with a Virgin Mary statue. Me llamo Inez Cuevas, you say out loud. Vivo en Corpus Christi. You write it on the blank page of your notebook, and underneath it: No tengo ami
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He has no plan, he needs a plan, he has no plan, he needs a plan -- the two thoughts bounce around inside his skull like racquet balls.
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So, as the lines on my face grow more pronounced, the lines on my finger prints are fading away?
All I can say is that it's a damn shame it's not the other way around.
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