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The kid’s head bumps audibly, jolting to crunches and thud; a bus capsule flying throatily through a dark 7am whining white. Barely audible landscapes slip paperlike past a dribbling window, sweating like us. Every cough, a reminder of airlessness; every hip flask flash, a 40 proof saviour haloed fluorescent aisle lights.

Postcard:

Remember when we used to stay up for kicks? By the second day I’d hate it. The swelling silences, listless coffee runs, the uncertain hallucinations. Yeah, well, things haven’t changed too much. You’ve just been replaced; now overly sweetened sachet coffee, now shots on the quarter hour, now computer games on the television with the sound turned low. It’s too cold to sleep here. I never thought I’d say it but really, fuck winter. It’s starting to mess me up.

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