Paris. 2015.
HE WOKE, NOT from a dream but from nothing; startled, his breath came snapping in and stung inside on the right behind his eye and temple. It was morning, mostly. He looked over. There was the girl, the milky-soft girl, lait, lait-like flowers, like little breaths of blossoms new in spring, luminous. The line of her! Her mess of purpleblack …
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