Escape is a part of my psyche. I need it. I crave it. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, it always lingers, either hopeful or sinister.
It’s time for the magician’s final act. Swarthy, with a painted moustache, he rolls out his clunky contraption. Behind one mirrored door, his assistant awaits.
He has many rings on his fingers, they sparkle, diversion worthy. His bedazzled sausages waggle amidst unintelligible words. She’s gone, escaped onto her next adventure.
“Drat!” he thought. “Now I must buy another.”
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