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        Semi-glass partitions divided the bad from the good. Nasty villains, and haloed saints. Parades, shining a bounty so delightful, every fire in town quivered. Every face ignored the truth of Downfall Town.


        Captions went with photos, none were read. Plastic ornates. They comp a steak down to gristle once medium rare and a good day for lean meat. Corny victims rose from their seats patting their bellies affectionately. Mr. and Mrs. Old-face suck their dentures clean while still in their mouths. Salutes show that it's time to go back to the car. Power tools become sedate. Funny faces ride mouths open. Grill work suddenly turns into an interesting topic for me to think about while I was with them.


        A strip joint visits towns rarely in the public attention. Carefully staged public plans work more intentionally for those who want to make it work out real good. See, the plans remain hidden while willing friends are invited over for tea. Hit time, glowing slow time, becomes real good. Routine checkups are more interesting with magazines to read. Lobbies invariably have fish tanks to stare at.


        I darted quickly for a seat. The room was small, not much room for frivolous chairs. Cannon ball delectables make for perfect fragrances suitable for all occasions. Leaving, taking a bit along with you as you went. They knew where you were at. How you were doing at the neighborhood bank club, the membership special for members only. Everyone in town was a member though. Everyone knew everyone else's name and who your latest friends were.


        Sanctity excluded me.



Cherubs beacon -- blown out every night at seven.

        My handmade gravy stained the chairs, my fault. Too watery. No taste, so it belonged 


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