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Odysseus - p. 348

The morning bus struggled to the Pentagon through monotonous Virginia streets. Living people with green mouths given up for dead. Sunlight imprisoned in photoelectric cells. And Odysseus looking like a beggar, carefully plotted three-dimensional space on a concealed hand-held data array. Still he never stopped thinking about Mrs. Odysseus in her red robe. Where is she? The night held no memory.
(authorship unknown)
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