The printing nozzles skittered back and forth with eerie grace, laying strands of snow-white tendon over black carbon-fiber bone.
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She watched him basking in the dawn by the river, the butterfly man. She gave chase, with net and long legs, and he was eagerly captivated. She held her breath and him close, and he stayed still in her hands.
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Tucked in the curtains of her balcony, the girl watches the parade march below, but she cannot feel the scorch of it. The crowds shout with gleaming teeth and poison tongues, the voices of madmen and soothsayers, creatures with glass hearts and dreamers selling their nightmares in bittersweet trades. Demand is high. Supply, too, is high.
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