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The wooden deck creaked. Reality was starkly divided between us and them, now and again, before and tomorrow. A warm light, too white to be fire, formed a bubble within which we barely stood. She, with icy eyes (pale blue?) and lusty breath, “Your words,” she reached out and pulled me close to her. My words. She heard twists and tales, she heard lovely satin and passion, she heard the humanity; couldn’t hear the spite and venom, couldn't hear the contempt. Maybe she was just a masochist.

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somenewlanguage

September 2010

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