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Road Laundry

From flying high through earth's best splendor, to solving life's quarter-driven Kafkaesque dryers, gobbling metal disks, incrementing the sacred clock by some inscrutable formula, where coins don't yield 1:1 increase in time, unless the laundry gods ordain it, while they laugh at our folly, feeding their insatiable mirth at our expense.

And so they remain damp, the launderer's last laugh.

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