The book of vanishing people said: "His story started with bones," as the avenues of Manhattan collapsed into flooded subway tunnels and turned back into rivers. Rivers the otters could reclaim.
Speaking of such a thing, the woman smiled and said: "My bones are going to Hell in a handcart." Her body-frame light with laughter and degenerative loss in swiss cheese and honeycomb patterns.
And a Father, sitting in a cabin, preferred the sound of shifting wood to the voice of his wife.
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