“I’m so glad my Mom’s letting me go out tonight. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors.
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