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The cigarette surfed the delicate curves of his lips, a recent fixture of his own style.
He took a numbing drag of tobacco smoke with each sigh of humanity--freedom was gone.
He strived to change the feeling, yet his raw eyes burned at the sight of melancholy situations, his torn pair of chinos could not withstand the chilling bite of winter, and his hat could not hide him from the disjointed spiritual being that created him--trust was gone.
The mitigation of pain was easy. The cure seemed bitter, but fell warmly upon the palate of his tongue and down his throat
It was all bread and butter, sweetness was out of the question, but the little savory flavor that life had to offer was gone.
The memory of his brother was crushed under the wheel of Lincoln. The same one he drove.





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