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On the plane, he rests his head against the window and imagines clouds as collections of exhales made by lovers, the size of each revealing the duration of the romance. And he thinks he sees theirs, just a frail, wisp of a thing, dwarfed by the swirling nimbus of some golden anniversary. Thousands of feet below, a boat slides through the icy waters like a child's finger pulled through the skim of a warm glass of milk.

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