At the top of the ridge, above the figures scattered on the slope, a second, just as unevenly cleaned, white Dodge transporter with opaque windows has appeared. It does not cast a visible shadow. A frisbeering ricochets off its polished radiator grille. He dies down and his sliding door points towards the slope and sliding door of the first white van far below him. On

chilling ugly little questioner wore a hat with a lens on it and almost fell forward into the technician’s lap. His companion asked for an address to which one could send well wishes and a bouquet of flowers. The aluminumoid nano-coated NASA ceiling is supposed to reflect every imaginable UV ray on the technical student’s bare skin. He knows about the ambulance, the ITS in the Brigham and Women’s and the five days in the rehab ward from the fat, dark-skinned Notkin, the young woman with the unsightly hat and the film scientist ID who came down late at night in the basilar elevator To collect recordings of the program that Madame wanted to hear personally, as she had said, and which was lucky enough to know Madame privately, as she had said. The acronym read LZT, Madame Psychosis was for long-term therapy in what the bearded young woman in the sooty hat had strangely referred to as the rehabilitation center in an incredibly awkward public housing area of ​​Metro-Boston. This is the most precise

Sum of the knowledge of the WYYY technician. Soon he will wish to know a lot more. Compare the dents-littered steel ramp that now slides up and behind him on the ridge out of the creaky open sliding door of the transporter. Compare the absolute darkness in the transporter drizzling in front of you down by the gutter of Arlington St., whose sliding door has also been opened from the inside. The south-west slope is coplos: The JMM police force responsible for the gardens, together with their well-bred golf carts, leans over by the emptied pond, throws circular segments of glazed donuts into the duck thicket and instructs a largely dispersed crowd to please move on. The frisbee players and hackysackers from the ridge have suddenly disappeared; suddenly there is an eerie silence like a reef when a shark swims by; the throat of the transporter dieseling on the ridge open, black and silver-tongued. Cf. also the wheelchair, which now suddenly shoots down the ramp of the comb transporter, a brass stain squeaking like crazy, with a snowplough-like shovel welded to the front

welded-on snowplow-like shovel that glides over the ground, spreads mowing chaff around you and rolls incredibly fast; the brakes released, the legless figure, masked with sword-stemmed Bourbon lilies, on sturdy stumps in the wheelchair, leaning forward like a slope clean on skis, the hunched fetal figures on the slope, the wheelchair moving rapidly around them, the preparations that appear in the semi-darkness to be taken in the back of the gutter transporter far down at the foot of the steep slope, the technician who arches his back to let the sunlight fall on the scarred hollows under his jaw, the shopping cart with the calculator, set in motion tangentially by a squeaky rubberized wheel, clattering down the hill and its contents scattered, the shoe of the homeless man he was wedged in, tumbling after him, and the now shoeless owner of the shopping cart who just waved his hand in front of his face as if he had a D.

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