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The flat wide bands of the grain of oak rippled. He pulled away. The curb receded. The street lights rippled. Froth swirled in the small white cup. She had looked down. Her nostrils had picked up. Her hand lay across the table. He follows the ringless spread. Swirl patterns so much. Clink and swallow pattern so much. He blinks. She nods. The car explains. |
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~ eighth locus of twenty
~ in strand oscil seventh or ninth |