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... chitecture. Stone arches drooped like guilty men caught mid-crime, and dust swirled in lazy, traumatized circles. The air crackled with the aftertaste of too many unhinged principles — gravity was somehow still working, time was getting ready to be manipulated, and somewhere in the chaos, Satan was being puppeteered like a soap opera character who’d lost creative control of his own show.
Judge’s hand hovered above the parchment. The quill quivered, waiting. The first line he wrote wasn’t ...
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