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Miss Misenthropy does not mind the indiscreet charm of kicky colors, but puts their perky blast in the washing machine surgically separately. Shamelessly hopelessly causelessly loves, in analogical-chronological order: the ersatz ticking clock under her pillow bringing the pace of her totally-irrelevant-to-regular-humanity dreamish ventures; counting from left to right the tiny blinking reddish alarm lights from cars parked under her window; snubbing the intrusive persuasive challenger call of the day until 8:33, wrapping in sheets up to risk a cardiovascular block, then unravelling the cocoon and greeting the sun caressing the off-white wall with the usual dazzling sincere astonishment. |
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