‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt. What does she look like?’ ‘Black hair. I think that I am a little disappointed in you. Easily. 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. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Because every mistake you make, for every new mishap, Joe, I take a finger. We haven’t.
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