” “I suppose all IS well that ends well. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. ” He would follow with a long discourse on biology, uninvited. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. ‘She’s still bleeding.
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