I looked down and it seemed a typical day, a cafe, a fountain, a canopy. Suddenly he reappeared on the phone, glasses clinked, the photographer took pictures. Somewhere in the gestures was the needed information, in the voices were the familiar sounds, in the photographs was the required evidence. The air was still. There was no promaja and glass surrounded us.

After weeks of drifting in and out of windows, reading letters on the disintegrating

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