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I woke up on the futon today. My purples became rather a dark shade of steel blue. 73 followed suit, doing its cross-diagonal checksum, and we checked for watchers before crossing the field. As we left behind a wake of crop circles, I turned to myself and asked: Have I seen a range of integers? Nobody was there to answer. Winds blew furious in empty space. Meantime, we turned over on the futon, badly-shaven face glitching the fabric, bad codec style. The throbbing seemed to fade and rise, never unpleasant, always present.
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