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  • At this point the machine had cut him off by saying “End of new messages.” I replay the message immediately and continue to look out of the window. The stretch of land outside, along with the occasional telephone pole, seems to mark the memories beginning to flood into my consciousness. The illusion of movement forces the wires to take on parabolic shapes, descending slightly and rising again into the next pole.
    But nothing outside is really moving, or changing, and I know that it’s been this way the whole time. I’ve been, and continue to be, drunk with the illusion that these faces are orbiting me, when in fact, I am the only one spinning on an axis, projecting my own movement onto them.
    God, what else have I been projecting?
    Staring out of the window I repeat these questions to myself, playing and replaying Matty’s message, over and over again, “Do you still remember our first pride, Anto? Seems far from where we are now huh?” Oh, Matty, the distance I’ve traveled thus far loses its quantity when you ask me questions such as these!
    I look into Salinas, watching the evening blue surrender to a secret, dark violet. With the white light reflecting from the inside of the train the landscape in the window disappears, and I see my reflection blinking back at me. He is unsure of where he is, and knows not how to answer the voice on the phone. So the questions repeat, continuously, and he sits, plucking the pedals from his tulip with the sickly hint of yellow pressed between his fingertips.
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