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Dawn at the Icosahedronworks.
Men wearing togas and carrying steel
lunchboxes file bleary eyed out of the massive front archway. It's not
easy making Ideal Forms on the graveyard shift. They pass through the
graveyard, their sandals kicking up limp dust in the dew of a new day,
past yawning early boys leading sheep and goats out past the olive trees.
+++
Lenticular Lisa languishes
on the sand. The sun shines through her and
there's a smoking pinpoint on her towel. She's a sharp girl. Her vision
is 20-0. She sees every tiny thing everywhere.