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On its surface, the sculpture was masterful. But looking deeper, I perceived shapes forced into the marble, curves and planes that did not rise from within. This was not the image of a man, only of his skin, a polished surface without organs, skeleton, or a brain behind the handsome, murdering face.
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Read “The Sons of Vincente” by I.L. Heisler, in Issue #183, Seventh Anniversary Double-Issue
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