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It thinks it’s me, it’s sad. It is sad. Its self itself is sad id thinks it’s me, I’d think it me. Id is sad, it’s sad. It thinks for me, it thinks it thinks for me. I think it thinks it thinks of me the way I think of it, in itself. The way I think of it, I think of id when I think of it, and it’s sad. Its sad is its things it thinks. When I think the way I think, I think it thinks of it and sees itself, it thinks someone else is in.
Every criminal organisation in the Northerns suddenly took an interest in the likfe of Maia Kennan, even though she was nothing special. At first she was flattered, then NoPol had her assassinated. The autopsy done by Dr. Aldentuss confirmed her status of being no-one. Short-sighted, demure, clinically depressed, interested in crossword puzzes, slight Irish accent.
Media followed the case wolfishly. They found out what had actually happened eight days in, and Don Kanzo died of shame when news got out he’d fallen in love. His autopsy revealed a broken heart.
NoPol sent out a half-hearted apology and everybody moved on.
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