Then he threw the letter at me. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. You don’t have to live forever to understand that. She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become. “You see,” she said, very gently, “I AM going. .
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