Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards.
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