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Did that figure move? No, he couldn’t have. It was an illusion. Something about light splitting through the window bars in contrast to the natural dull, gray cell.

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Black heels tapped anxiously on the slick, white tiles of a richly spacious bathroom. Bailey scratched her razor-sharp acrylic nails to the same tempo.

Rain turned the greenfields into a wetland. Lightning struck dragons, unicorns and fairies until their bright bodies faded grey. 

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He rolled along an infinite conveyer belt of orbs. At the end of eternity, he didn’t know. A door?

Murky window panels dirtied the rippling bay, but the swaying dinghies were no less hypnotic from inside the red, rotting telephone booth. 

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