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Wipers wash water drops distorting vision, flattening it back out to consistancy. I arrive here, at my place of work.
A nun was shot through her large fast food wax-gilt cup. She didn't realize she'd been shot until I pointed out the gunshot wound.
cracking slowly through the carapice. Reality dripping and globbing, the colors swirling in tight coils like goopy oil paint sticking to itself.
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