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A phantom in your
hot dog, hiding in the
fire pit. An angel in
your back seat, in the mind
of an heiress. A head with finely
stringed hair, dripping over olive
and sipping into the water. Feeling
chips with ice holding the
virtue of colour, spice and cream.
We tell him, eternities multiply
around us, that money doesn’t
buy girls, but the other way
around.

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