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Excerpt from The Winged Child, Chapter Twelve:

     She didn’t know what she sought here, certainly nothing from her old life. She had no involvements in this place at all. She’d been reduced to an observer, a tourist in her own country, a transient ghost, seeing everything as it presented, drawing no conclusions, making no judgements, venturing no interventions or participations. All sorts of humankind brushed past her, intent on business that was none of hers. All manner of garb, costume and uniform, several languages she knew to some degree, or at least recognized, and some she didn’t. Light everywhere. Night now a myth, a folklore from the Upheaval, no longer an experienceable reality. More lights on this one block than in all of Shelton Crossing, words and images assaulting her eyes, flashing and strobing, shapeshifting and colorflipping, demanding possession, wheedling consumption, exciting appetites for a tsunami of things toxic and unnourishing.


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