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The Appraisal

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My printer cartridge face was low on ink

Woodwork Wednesday’s resurfaced, pacing my 

breath like a cross-country runner chased by

Frankenstein’s monster. Swimming gala’s drowned

my confidence as Binary Normans charged through

my spleen, mashing the past into now. The

stench of lumpy custard seeped out as I

waited, watching last rites performed by tortured 

artists bullied by convention. Dali

walked in. My CPU was far too high.

 

 

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