Dear Omomi,
It's a Sunday evening and the darkness weaves through hillcrest like the tracks of a dense wig. From my window I can see the yellow that marks the black road in the TUKS res in tracks of parallel yellow and white that underlines some distance away. I am with my thoughts, still and uncertain. I am thinking and wishing very wildely about you.
Things are not exactly great at the moment. But things could be a lot worse too. I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.
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