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Most of the spatial memory that let me find a tool or a part is now wrong
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She stopped directly atop the sinkhole and screamed at the flagger
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The moth disappears every five frames
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There is no word for it.
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There’s a small snap latch inside the bottom surface
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That gray spool of used imaging tape contains everything you’ve printed
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One blatantly inconspicuous black sedan
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The Smell of Molten Projects in the Morning 