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White-knuckle millionaires on bobsleds are haunting my dreams. Grizzly-bear run zoos handing out free hugs roam the countryside like circuses from the fifties. Mathematical tornadoes calculate how much of your life is left while you’re busy eating ice cream and feeling guilty about it. Hands are reaching down to help you up. They brush through your hair while you’re texting and walking.
You’re not supposed to name lions. You’re not even supposed to call them lions. They exist and that’s all they are.
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You’re not supposed to name lions. You’re not even supposed to call them lions. They exist and that’s all they are.
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