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To Rich Furman's previous piece
Final curtain She stands on the corner with a pigeon pressed tightly to her lips, kissing noisily into contorted terrified feathers, eyes well redden and glaze from her hardening grip. An old mans tells you that God is a '63 Dodge as he promenades in the square, a dazed and frightened hamster. Another chants: chocolate chocolate staggering drunk confused mantra in the streets to the confused vacuity of human kindness. You look at the sky, find no full moon as explanation, no barking dog warning of the end, no message or meaning in the random array of clouds forming overhead in patterns that you cannot explain either, just a sinking emptiness that blankets what is and can be known.
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