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Serried reefs of foamy water vapour imbricated as giant banks of cloud conspire with Sol in its noontime ardour to soak to the skin anyone abroad though it rained only briefly at the dawn when the lightshow seemed to utter cool tidings and the shark-grey sky idled on anemone rails and sleepers of pearl. Stroking its tentacles on the nacre Aeolus from the stratosphere stares down on the vale of sweat like any author on protagonists in her creation, and values heavy weather like a peen. They’re cutting the grass of the bowling green.
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