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  • He stood in the hallway of the old building that survived the San Fransisco earthquake of 1865. His reflection in the mirror created a vast depth of memory and longing to hear Mark Twain describe the terror in person as if they were having coffee down the street.

    Mr.Twain would take a sip and set his mug on the table made of reclaimed would and slowly speak while leaning forward, "One could have fancied that somebody had fired a charge of chair-rounds and rags down the thoroughfare. The street car had stopped, the horses were rearing and plunging, the passengers were pouring out at both ends, and one fat man had crashed half way through a glass window on one side of the car, got wedged fast and was squirming and screaming like an impaled madman."

    Then reality came back and he looked down at his paint covered Vans slip-on shoes and the i-phone he was holding with a sweaty han nervously awaiting a single text message. A text that would hold all of life, loss, future and love in Helvetica Neue. A sound that he chose in his phones settings would ring out in that hallway to alert him of his message. The sound would make his heart stop for a simple but neverending moment like when Bastian discovered he and Atreyu where connected somehow through words and imagination.

    He stared. Into the reflection. Down the corridor's of multiplying reflections of himself. He stared. He waiting. Still. Motionless. He waited.
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