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It gets moving. The air begins to be populated. Dense, possessed. An alarm clock in the morning. The routine and the people staring at it. The cities have a peculiarity, they make us invisible. Light enters through all the windows. In all those tables, the toasts jumping in the air becomes irretrievably anonymous. Even denser. Even more routinely. There’s no sense of screaming. Disappearance is imminent. It falls, over the night. NEVADA.
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