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From marching ice-crystals, we suddenly shift to a pan upwards, across the hanging �� of a ������ crystal-hive. The entire ������ �� has the �F of wax. Or those soft contact lenses you took up, the gift given you by the strange optometrist you met in the subway... they're not plastic, but wax, softly melting now across the �\�� of your �� (you can wash it off, but you may not even notice the change, or you might like the change, or the thoughts and feelings that come with it).
 
 
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