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And Yet, There She Sits The life-creased countenance stands a title to the rest, slumped in obvious agony, filling the wheeled carriage. Her rather vacant veteran stares off into the dim afternoon, whose light charms the clouds of dust competing with theirs – one left leg, slippered in regulation blue (with the necessary rubber strips to provide proper traction across and over the transom of Room 422) its mate neatly boxed, labeled, and bar-coded in that post-modern style headed for shelving whose denizens were once paired; he sniffs a well-rehearsed snort, then spits as he coughs; she belches a proud cloud into the path of an oncoming car: and there she sits. he stands. there in the ramp – as if the fate of the left were a foregone conclusion. |
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