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  • We rushed through all the lines. Past the halls painted now a faded yellow.
    Colonial circa 1730's.
    Courtyard in the center. Statues.

    I can't remember last when I actually had heard the stroke of a key from a type writer.


    This place holds my history frozen in time.
    Again, the stroke of the finger on the key and the slight delay before it hit the paper. All of it. Punctuating my past. Silently loud, familiar and unheard for some years.

    My name was called. I got a piece of paper with my fathers hand writing. A statement of my birth. From a drawer, in a cabinet, in a building that sits still in time.
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