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It was there, in the quiet hum of Chino’s guitar playing.

In the light tapping on Helga’s keyboard.

Josh and Rafa’s gurgled murmurs.

 

It was there, I felt again how simple it was.

 

Like an itch.

Like an itch.

Like an itch.

 

The billowing lacy wisps of smoke.

The smell of incendiary self-loathing.

In the gentle ha-ha’s.

Scuffing on the carpet as Chino crosses the floor.

 

Tick.

Tick.

TicK.

 

How simple it was.

A long time ago.

How simple it was.

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