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Harshes on violets, a pudenda scored with machine-made marks like drunken cross stitch, white like a line scored in the concrete by a park stone, sand stone, "falsh," he drooled, "errorrssss on youuuuuuuuUUUU!," winding up an octave higher and ten trails more screech, baleful and ominous like vinegar lotion pie, the mother who hates you, the mother who feeds you the poison pill and the rancid…
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