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The pilgrims come every day, all of them the same: ducking underneath the garage door before it’s settled into its cradle up. . .
My skin sack was taken to the Hall of Pictures
in the Capitol. My Zipps seemed made
to slide across the marble floor.
Since a mechanical frame around the head
can interfere with access to the most. . .
Rethinking inscrutability in two recent festival hits.
Short fiction by Asher Dark.
On Lionel Shriver’s stale contrarian schtick.