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Skipping softly, wandering lightly, the tendrils of his mind floated in his head. The shreds of it all, the pieces remained, giving him ideas that didn't serve him well.
"Sell it all. No! Burn it!," They said. "You are the president. Your clothes are haunted."
He would sit in front of the general store in the second wooden rocker from the left. Everyone knew him, all the cops knew him. All the locals knew him.
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