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I brushed past the tiny lobules neath her eye patch,glanced at the hairpin where the eye now sat,then reached for the porch with frozen capsules next.T's almost the eleventh minute after midnight,people from all walks of life are in bed,its in the kempt evening they had slept,neither once are they waltzing about nor behest out of the bounds of the ancient buildings we have as Manors and Churches beheld.The street mongers of old clutches and fake ringlets whom ordinarily be playing Roulette on the sidewalks are forgone by the minute hand.Yet our fellow should leave ready for the Station,so she asks;Of the time that she may sift as of wind,sands or Wheat and swiftly she is for the train first,and whether the love of her life be on that aforesaid waiter list.
Keith Ranjeni