#0074. Come listen. She speaks so much. She speaks so quickly. She has no fear in her. What could she fear? The morning I met her, she had rode across the Sun in some flaming chariot. She had settled warfare and famine and pestilence and even death. She was so beautiful. She shimmered angelic. She brought with her no host of heaven. Just porcelain face. Porcelain hands. You've been away too long she said to me. And I knew she was correct. But she still can never answer my question of Dear Alice, what, pray tell, is the point of it all?
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