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from a world that set out to crush them. Time and use had rendered it less of a refuge and more of a nexus for lingering remnants of sorrows past. As I lay on a bed fit for a bum, I began to question the existence of The Cunt. It was four o’ clock in the morning, a good five hours since arriving, and I had still not heard of or seen that slug. I checked my phone to see if there were any missed messages and found there was. A lone message from said Cunt claimed that she was getting ready and was going to walk down the street to where I was. The message had been sent about twenty minutes before read, so my reasoning, deeply flawed, as it would prove, concluded that enough time had passed for her to be on her way towards me. Gripped by a fit of desperation/frustration, I decided to drive back down the street to see if I could find her and maybe give her a ride or something. Since arriving at the hotel, I had been constantly sipping from my bottle of sweet, caustic nepenthe and was certainly beginning to feel it. I never once questioned my ability to drive though, as the insane never once question their sanity. Besides, it was just down the street, not even a block away (so my logic went).

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The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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