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The cars are whistling on the rails to a stop. I feel a piss of air is in order. Yet they don’t come about. Its electronic. Mechanical age has diminished without a trace. My blood boils to zero fumelessly. My eyelids drop below a hundred. Sleep beckons with her long white talons.


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Once beyond an ear in the galaxy there lived a cookoo bird named Alvin. He liked to chirp, to fly and harp. Yet no sound traveled through time to remind him by. So he built a rocket and rocked it. Fuel was scarce so the bird ate the whole thing, belched real loud and went to sleep, dreaming of flying, chirping and harping.

The end is nigh.

Hey! There he is!


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