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Spectare Triumphans
See this, the darkness voiced. Fist. Spectare examines the submission with tenderness. I do, he volunteers. Five white clamped digits softland on his uncleft chin, touch like fur the edgy lines of his erect prickling stubble. Spectare non triumphans backs from untreated body politics of streets, the raw prefectures of his crossed and former class. Muscle. Need more. He fears. His own kind. Spectare edges out of his reverie and danger, returning to memoranda and order. Recruitment policy, revise. The confidence of commercial data. Conserve. Later, on a prolonged springtime Thursday, Spectare pencils his tribune with a single cross. His double. Triumph of right, defender of choice. The sun dips low, obscure, on a blue sky bloodies a red eye.
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