His words echo through the mouthpiece. His voice squeaks like a tot, but she knows he’s a robust young man. Isn’t he? Is she confused again? What day is it? What time? What day again? Bodies move in slow motion. They did not used to be that way. Things were different, More beautiful, spun on the loom, and quilted with indifference. That’s why it’s better now, Or is she peering into the future again? She gets so confused.
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