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There are 76 emails in my inbox about Viagra. Some call it vIaGrA, others V1agra. They always find a way past the bots. I delete them all. People walk past my desk; some ‘good morning’s I reply to, most I don’t. I don’t know if they’re talking to me or whether I’m actually really here or not. Nothing feels real, or alive; it’s like a ancient lullaby; like some dark haired auntie sat by your cot singing softly to your tiny suffocated corpse, blood clots between her teeth.
I say good morning. They say good morning. Is it? Isn’t it? We could simply make sounds at each other. A tonal greeting. Goo mawnnn.
you seem unhinged in the brain pan – i like you. you can come again
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