Every Sunday she sits, rocking, a neural damage-case, her scent the acrid tang of chemical imbalance. Sometimes, unpredictably, she raises her fist and strikes herself several sharp blows to the head. In earlier days, they’d have made her a saint.
the ant finds kingdoms in a yard of ground
Every Sunday she sits, rocking, a neural damage-case, her scent the acrid tang of chemical imbalance. Sometimes, unpredictably, she raises her fist and strikes herself several sharp blows to the head. In earlier days, they’d have made her a saint.
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