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strike the toastmaker and

the words will revolt.  strike the

bridegroom and the

gold coins will de mint.

the love will run dry, after two months

finding joy in

cliche, running like a thief is

chasing her.  She’ll end in

a dense city, lost amid the

sandstone.  Which corner will

she scream in to?  Which street

won’t her husband look in?

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