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  • In my other life, there is a desperate urgency to everything, although the reasons are unclear. Scraps of paper are left under rocks, but unfolded reveal only scribbles, mad diagrams or maps to nowhere. People whisper to me as they pass, butchered words that make no sense. I have things to get done, partial tasks that are meant to lead somewhere but fizzle out halfway through.

    This is the kind of place I am expected to wait, lurking in the shadows, dodging the light. The train beckons, and I don't know if it is about to leave or has just arrived. It promises escape, a way out of this mess, but I can't tell if it's fucking with me, if it's in on the plot.
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