spinning for twenty feet through the air, leveling a patch of forest wherever it crashed and rolled on. The women's heads were bare, but many of them put: flowers in their hair. A bright light, like a flare, sputtered by the heavily blanketed driver on the makeshift carriage seat; softer lights winked inside the coach car. I just wanna see her—one more time.
That was what was wrong with Larch; not everyone who is ninetysomething is senile, she would grant you, but Larch wasn't normal. Wilbur Larch wrote of the fall. Larch wrote to Homer. Larch had chosen to occupy his emotions with a task.
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