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"He gasped at the sight of the black dots outside his window, believing his nightmares real, and saw they weren’t lice, but ICO. Loads. Crawling through gardens. Leant against warped, wind-blown fences. Lining the alleyway that ran like a spine between garden rows. Gathered in a bunched fist by the gate that led to Mr Sharmake’s garden..."
"What I think this teaches us is that distraction, gossip, fragments of experience, digressions and byways are the makings of fiction..."
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