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They were so beautiful, coiffed and perfect, the people eating in the restaurant of the place our mother was working. They were smoothed as if airbrushed, as if you really could digitally alter real people.
It was like they all had their backs to me, even the ones facing me. Their disconnect was what elegant meant.
Every classic old horse story I’ve ever chanced upon in this brave new unlibraried world deals with the bloodiness of humanity to other creatures as well as each other and more often than not ends in dutiful sadness as if the story, not totally broken, is at least broken in.
