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He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing
until it gleamed like a tomato on the vine that was begging
to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.
He stood up to put the horn to his lips, trying to imagine
it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized how bad
the metaphor was. He practiced anyway for six hours a day
in front of the mirror---what else was there to do with time
that stretched like the mozzarella on Death's caprese?
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