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the bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
"Mm," said Oskar in reply, continuing to advance towards her. They were a half-dozen paces apart, his footfalls feeling heavier, forced, a quaking in his lower lip that he shifted his head downwards to hide.

In his mind, he looked brave as he approached - the image of control. He pictured it so clearly, even when he fought against his limbs, trying to keep them straight and true.

There was a weight in the waistband of his shorts, related to the little book he'd read by moonlight in the shadow of the tree.

"We will be," he said, his right hand coming up, gesturing towards the bag she had.

"With that."
A list of the dying, a list of the damned.

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I've Got No Strings · Crematorium Gardens