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“It doesn’t have to be personal correspondence,” says the Great Zaganza, Philatelogist, “you just want a general forecast, yes?”

“Yes,” says Azalea, who is going to war.

“Then junk mail will do,” says Zaganza. He sifts it out of her bag, then cuts out its corners: they scrape up the self-adhesives with razors and soak out the lick-and-sticks. Soon they’re poring over nine stamps, arranged by price, blurred by postmark.

“You’re going to get a lot more junk mail,” says Zaganza at last.

“That’s good!” says Azalea, swelling.

“But that doesn’t,” frowns Zaganza, “really change when you die.”

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