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She summons the combat autism the pellegrini built into her. It enfolds her like a cool blanket, turns the world into vectors and gravity wells.
See? That’s what really matters, isn’t it? Have fun. Bastard. And then she is gone. ‘And how is young Pixil?’ asks the Gentleman. Isidore does not reply and tries to walk faster.
She laughs softly. ‘Art should not be flat, or dead, like this,’ she says. ‘It should be sung.’ ‘I believe they call that music around here.’ She gives me a withering look, and I stay quiet after that, content to look at the
