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 Dsappearng Ink is only as good as the secret of its reappearance. It may take some time to sink in unless it never does, just pools on the surface, I love you you’ll never know. But none of that matters now, like kissing someone asleep, we’re all in too big a hurry, you with your blitzkrieg party-planner, me with my puppy who has to go. Surely an explanation of all this botheration is forthcoming, why the web-footed girl hates water and the president is a moron. Will smoke make it appear? Noxious gas? Another detonation? It seems the whole plot hinges on a letter either never written or received, some singer insisting on hopelessness crosspurposes to her five-octave range. May one day soon someone pull us out into the rain where all that vanished becomes legible again and all we’ve struggled to decipher fades away at last. ...

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