With a view to utopia.
Seen in passing, an instruction manual and an old clay pipe.
A dinner jacket had been discarded nearby and a breeze carried the scent of orange and magnolia.
Drums playing an erratic scat of rhythm and sheer disturbance patterns penetrated the cool quiet of submission.
They flicked fans as if practicing polishing a newly turned imbuia wood salad bowl.
And there, half-covered in the red sand was the spine of a seemingly old book.
Gutenberg got there before us.
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