‘It is to say goodbye, you understand. ‘I do not see at all. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. “Shhh. “But Julian, we don’t even know each other!” She exclaimed. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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