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when lost, you consult the globe in the study, while titters emanate from the parlor with perfume. trace the trajectory with the third finger, doubting copernicus. plume of pipe smoke absconds with your reflections in candlelight when suddenly the globe seems an egg, the faintest tapping from deep beneath madagascar. for what is the topology a shell you murmur and are haunted by the fate of the unborn child down the hall inside marianne. a fissure like a shadow seems to open near the horn of africa as if the monstrous birth from the sphere were to reveal humankind's destiny as well. oh well. the rounded belly of his honor's wife, and you starighten to return to the parlor, having found your way again.
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