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I dream of being an air hostess, my love. I write a letter asking for it. In the 1960s, the things you lived with. I am alone in the middle of a hanging. Marie Antoinette counsels me, in this screwy moment, that breathlessness is a virtue. A million trials, said with feeling, lead to popularity, a government wandering in its glimpses of its mysterious illness. “Well stacked in Las Vegas.” “Well stacked in Las Vegas.” |
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