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Eugene

Heaven is super awesome and perfect beyond anything you, reading this, can imagine except one thing which is that all the shirts are about three sizes too small and not in a sexy way. Everyone flies–not with wings or anything silly, but as racing beams of thoughtlight–but they do it with their arms kind of stuck out to their sides, pits chafing.

“This is Heaven, right?” says Eugene, his electrum trumpet voice only the littlest bit nervous. “We’re all sure about that?”

The infinite expression of all possible love beams down on him, and does not pick a wedgie.

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