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- The Chocolate Chip Croissant [hereinafter refered to as
- `c/3'] resides, splend'drous, in state as it were, an aura
- of piquant expectancy filling the otherwise bleak landscape
- with a tenuous veil of diffuse rococco blandishments
- reminscent of a bygone Dali. Ruffling through the Power
- Grass, bleating Vaughn Williams anthems to Itself, The
- Sinuoid wreathes obliquely betwixt the ant-eaten AM-PM Mini
- Market soft-serve ice cream cone and the nether buttress
- upon seven of the like to which, the C/3 expresses inertia.
- To nothing in Particular, a Voice as a flocculent zephyr
- rises like heat on a New Mexico highway, mingling with
- distorted gospel cassettes and the plaintive honking
- burbles of Carlos "Spit-Key" Ayrton-Plinth, baring the
- naked soul of his Selmer alto saxophone upon the
- discriminate ear of the desert floor. "Spuck" It says.
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- A5>