I muttered curses to keep the deep fakes away, studied the stars for signs of the worlds to come, though they were already here—the extinctions and feudal lords, the dirty blankets, the dissidents tied to stakes or hung from branches, the price gouge, death camp, flood, bombs of liberty, bomb and bomb and bomb already dropped, already having made me from its dust, already broken and paid for and straddling my crown. What crown? If I’m king of anything, it’s being late. Omw, I type, though I’m still huddled in last year’s mistakes. Asteroid, Alexa corrects, and I say, Five minutes. Just give me
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