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Spectare's Descent
Concerned for coiffure and composure, ex-Mrs Spectare keys René on her handset. René of Basildon and Zurich. An entire ringed and dyked heptarch's dominion distant, Dr Spectare dials her in vain. From a traditional red village kiosk. In character. Engaged. Was once, remember. And more. He shrugs then seeks out The Man Within. The Compass, that is. Among a shrunk circle of his familiars, over fag-ends and politics and slop-spills and small sporting talk, he consigns an afternoon to the loose ends of discontent, to the wry jokes drawn on the face of lament. Yah, boo. Boo who? His ever-diminishing circles. Circles that spin. Round on round and round again. Going Dutch? No, double. Pissed again? smiles Jim. Hell, Spectare sermons, is an unwedding ring.
Lore of the diminished. Circles of concern.
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