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The police chief runs

out the door and finds

his secretary.  She thinks that

he will tell her about his love and

how endless it is, like a well with cold

water would be, or with really hot

water (from the magma).  He doesn’t

say anything of the sort, but

asks her about murder rates,

or some boring stuff.  The lines between

the skies of her fantasies and

the future begin

to harden, like ink on

a page.

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