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Sandy Chronicles

Titanic My windows are taped in crosses like in Soviet war movies. The wind is bombing in gusts, and trees are bending to the ground. High tide and full moon, they say: the Grand Ball at Satan’s. The TV and the lights in the house suddenly make a dry ssch-pooh and the power is out. Here we are. I light the candles and glance out the window at the parking lot downstairs.

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