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Floorboard warmth up through. Right hand nestled in a milky bowl of fingers, salty for peanuts. Ungloved and smoking. Lips smacking to a windowed glance for ashtray streets below a steel wool sky. This place… old wood — that sleeping smell -, damp orange lamps lights and pale beer, watery, just ok. Both man and building, slouched by the fire, looking anywhere. Snow rubs itself against window pane, sighing pleasurably. Ahhhh, ok.

Postcard:

I don’t think I’ve ever pointed so much in my life. I point at everything. Yeh I’ve googled it but I’m still not sure it’s rude or what. There are too many bullshit rules here anyway — fuck if I know. ‘No I don’t want that, I want that’. You know. I’m not even bothering to learn the lingo. Well I’ll be here just a bit, probably, anyway. I still have a few months on the clock.

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