December 12th, 2002 - 5:12 a.m.

The madame needs a job, soonish. (It is in the genetic code, CTGA.)

Comfortable. All thanks to...

Then, gnawing ridiculousness. Wanting perfectly drawn cyan mathematical lines sweeping through milky white paper, intersecting lines peppered with blackish grey.

Granted, there is nothing to fear, nothing to die for.

And at the base of it all, at the foundations, at the bottom, underneath the sediment, I need money.

N.

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