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The brownstone reeks of age and the wake was in full swing
The sound of drunken gentlemen hovered somewhere south of deafening
Mouths full, laughing, they’re singing:

Light up! Light a million votives for, for the union dead! Let echoes of our fathers shade the night, the night a bloody red, and lest we forget: the dead don’t rest.

We went into the kitchen when the conversation stalled, a pocket sea of silence but footsteps bounced along the hall. Those outside burst in, tearing up our world, singing: