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Jimmy went back to the text message six or seven times that night, scrolling through it, searching for some hidden meaning, some subtext, some inside information, a nuance, a message that, of course, couldn’t be written in mixed company, a little something just for him, trying to read between the lines for something… anything that would say what wasn’t being said.
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Mark dropped his 1420 and was headed to 1001. When he unlocked his bike, and caught a whiff of kybo, that strong unmistakable smell, he was instantly transported to RAGBRAI, he looked around for the source of the aroma and spotted a Honey Bucket truck on Pike Street, sucking the shit out of a couple units in the alley between 4th & 5th.
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That red headed woman who only exits the building on her coffee breaks, was exiting the building. Strapped into her iPod, reading a paperback. Obviously she had no intentions of quieting her mind, or attempting to find silence through yoga or meditation. She was in full-on drown-it-out mode. Letting those little voices in her head compete with the Stone Temple Pilots and the Lady of the Lake series #17.
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Long story short
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