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“Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. “You must leave me your address if you please,” he said, as she rose to go. The future was not so black. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. ’ He sighed. “I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come.
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