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October 4, 2006

Jim: Through the Smelling Glass

Alice carefully read the same page again, enthralled with how Tennyson’s Charge of the Light Brigade filled her soul with molasses and sevens.

Stacatto flashes of silky orange cinnamon announced a visitor. “Coming,” her crystal voice pulsed ahead of her toward the door.

“It’s time to come home, Alice,” said the nice man with a voice like lemons and fur. He touched her arm in C Sharp and gently led her down the hallway.

Her mirrored reflection grew larger and larger until all Alice saw were the black pools of dilated pupils. “Best trip ever,” she murmured in rich mahogany.

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