A white ribbon tattooed in key-lime text spewed from within the nickel-and-diming money machine. The receipt, the reception, the beast’s albino tongue, the rude revelation from a Coinstar contraption. Remuneration made a baker’s dozen.

At seven before seventeen-hundred, a doubt delivered a destination. The union of a flushing broadway sun and the baked bricks of an abandoned print shop. They say the triumph of spectacle is illiteracy’s contentment. But Blaise never happy with his Pascaline, ditched the calculator to count in solitude and silence.

Serenity served the Frenchman’s triangle, overlaid it at diagonal and revealed the Italian master mathmagician’s secret numbers. Empty sky uncovered, nothing was discovered. Smoke and mirrors so thick. Where’s the trick?

Still, Pharaoh’s founder would have excavated the vast volume of a left justified pyramid if given an opportunity to find one. – Milestones are few and far between.

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