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I hate it here.
Why am I here?
People wash around me.
They stare, unsmiling. They wait,
weary. They sit, unsatisfied. They rush; they loiter; they linger. We have all brought our living selves to
breathe this dead atmosphere. We have
each brought our yearning to a place of ghost promises.
I love life.
Can it live here?
Very very well-written post. It breathes. I feel it in the kishkes.
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