Little cups pass between us.
Wait, don’t wait, cleanse, now go.
Pause. Pause again. Don’t raise an eyebrow.
A terrible pun, but you feel like a mug. Really I do too.
The Party paid for this marble room, the fixed grin of our server, the mimic garden courtyard, the words on the wall, the endless plush fields, the sun in the sky…?
Somewhere in Beijing, a report stamped ‘success’ is filed.
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