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[34] C A M I L L E C L AU D E L AT L A RG E At least a foot of confetti hides the floor. Streamers whisper and gossip, an ocean to walk through. So deep a confession wrung from lipless flutes. A city buried with debris. I raise my hands, charismatic looking back to a mind clear and smooth untroubled by spirits who would be my clock to breathe by. No one answers, pours champagne. I pray in stone. Study the maquette I would transform. I could lead it under stars small as eyeglass screws. Stars do not judge or condemn. Do not sit on my shoulder like an unforgiving parrot biting my ear. A red streamer sticks to my shoe. A blue. ...

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