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Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman.
Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky.
What was I doing on this road in the middle of the night? I should have been in bed, under my blanket, a book with dog-eared pages at my side. This had to be a dream. Had to be. Tomorrow morning, I’d wake up, peek out the window: No grim-faced Russian soldiers patrolling the sidewalks, no tanks rolling up and down the streets of my city
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