My Friends
by
I leave St Pancras and set off westwards on the Euston Road. It is six in the evening on the 18th of November 2016, and the late-autumn sun has already set. The twilight is glazing the sky a deep blue. The streets are brighter and more
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“For what is a person without memories? A ghost, trapped between worlds, without an identity, with no future, no past.”
― The Garden of Evening Mists
― The Garden of Evening Mists
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