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It would be many moons before Maximilian would sleep again.


Until then he would be up all night blazing through virtual torches - $15 for a hundred - paddling along in a hole-riddled raft or chasing cathedrals in the clouds across the kingdom of Reubenzania—teardrop bats winging overhead, blood flowers blooming underfoot while a honeymelon moon rears restless over the blockhills.


One night Rubia would wake to a familiar sound to find him there, crazed-clacking hunched over the keyboard with the missing ‘esc’ key, in search of—each pixel dripping undiscovered beauty and every last angle holy, gushing ghosts, somehow bending itself to resemble the love-sogged shapes of lost children.

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