Picaresque

S. K. Nicholas

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Twitching your nose, you smell burger vans serving up endless portions of cheesy chips as leaves crunch beneath your worn pair of Dr. Martens. With Mogwai blaring on your headphones so loud and desolate and magnificentthat you know you’ll end up crying if you don’t lower the volume, you roll acigarette as those around town walk head down and focused on a future that never materialises. Wasting time as if it were a crime not to, you trawl through a shopping arcade ten minutes before closing. Soon after they kick you out, you purchase several packets of crisps and a few chocolate bars from a gas station that’s weeks from going out of business. When it does, it’ll remain empty for years and as haunted as all those other buildings that were once full of life now reduced to nothing but mere graveyards. There are so many echoes of what…

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