Calais Sands at Low Water, Turner.
As alcohol was still poisoning my veins, I stopped in different places of the city, watching people going down the streets with their Christmas bags. Waiting there for time to die.
At 4.30pm I was in a pub reading The Girl who Plays Go by Shan Sa . I saw those letters put together:
"Yes, soul's vanity is death"
It is always a shock to see someone else writing for you something you would never be able to even think of. Your hell is the one of others.
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