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Spicy chicken gets spoiled

in the back yard of the

teens’ hide out.  they’ve told each other

where it goes and how it

gets cooked, but the

drowsy paints

get to them and they

fall, all at once into a spiral of

tinted glass dildos and

lightly torn

magazine covers.  they fall and land in

the spicy chicken, its gooey and

burns when they clean their eyes.  if there

was truth, their life would be

a mute expression of

it.

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