THE CIRCUS INCIDENT

September 24, 2014
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robot helm

The show is over. You begin to peel off your clown suit. Others pass by, congratulating you on your performance. You feel a surge of well being. Here you are where you want to be doing what you want to do. You linger before the mirror. Time stretches out in pleasant reverie. Silence glides in and settles. You are alone in the tent. Now suitably garbed in street clothes, you step outside. You notice the door to the box office is ajar. You walk over, shove it open. There she is. You die.

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