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    If you’re quiet, and you listen, you can hear houses breathe. In the depths of night, you can hear them groan.

    You must drink from the grape and not the grain.

    Two people, mid-20’s; she’s in a blue dress. He’s in jeans. He’s blond, overgolded. He’s got a case of Roman hands and Russian fingers.

    Tres chic, n’est-ce pas?

    You’re precognitive!

    I can tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind’s in the northwest.

    A house is a place of shelter. It’s the body we put on over our bodies.

    As our bodies grow old so do our houses. As our bodies sicken, so do our houses sicken.

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