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Jessy Randall

The houses seem to be made of something
strange, like tin. Shops that should be open
are closed and dark. The ground is
unsteady, cold slush. You think you are
lost, even try to get lost but
a map of the city is embedded
in your brain, so just as you say you
don't recognize something, you do.
We're on Elmwood Avenue, aren’t we.
We're near the place we went that time.

Jessy Randall

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