Said to be the sundial of savages, the shadows where one can read the absence of the thing represented. Only during daylight of course.
The LIbrarian's Index Card just read, yours crumbled
"Well, love, it wasn't a good racer," an egg tapped on it's ricepaper ink lei line
The barrel fire still smelled horribly electronic. "Are they self-reporting?" Boots brushed against a noggin squirmed up sleepi...
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