Intercept the angel in this steel Skype rainy Sunday. I want a little surprise to my mother, I write, she likes pastries, guns and matured fruit. I'm on it, he says. And as we leave them both, each in its own corner of the city, I turn to the pharmacy and you live in pastry, I think my intention that bit turns into a riot of atoms, with the appearance of a tray of pastries.
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