Some believe the answer gathered on a stone that fell from the world.
They believe the answer was the atomic number of love, the face of creation painted on a rice grain, the perfect song swallowed by a rare bird.
Hope still lingers, gray clouds of incense sealed in red rooms, perfumed whores on antique couches, long-nailed hands shuffling Tarot cards.
Tired hope stares ahead, old eyes searching tea leaves in cracked porcelain cups, the…
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