The
Somnambule's Crime
Toward
The End Of December
Amid
the seasonal plagues a sunny place to sit melancholy at an unsteady white table
reading: ”filled with love as a competitive event I admired the untouched
girls raw baby carrots at the edge of a snow-filled pool newly opening petals or
periodicals pedicles toward the end of December.” A romance interrupted by a
a murder. Neither is interesting enough to awaken me. Toward morning a
cigarette sings into the room.
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