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A L O G - L O C K E D N AT I O N Nothing so national as a flag, the man says. A pink or blue wound you could take a pick to, a little level ground with tainted water. You could reconsider, the man says. He puts up a wet finger. No fire set today will burn that far in this wind. Clouds of dust turn into clouds. Meanwhile, the trees log every escape effort, the country serves itself, the enemy questions its crouching. 19 ...

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