From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. He savored the last solo, the coda. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work.
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