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    • The shape shifters in their usual form.
    • Clippering under moody clouds.
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Harbinger

I lay on the cot staring up at the sickly pallor of the light-pollution hanging over Palo Alto. Off to my right, movement catches my eye. A rat is running along the telephone wire. That’s all that’s up at this hour: the rats and me. One the harbinger of disease, the other the diseased.