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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.


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.

No need to reply.


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