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He wakes up. His life is all acoustic pulses and repetetive beats and repetetive beats and grilled cheese and stomach ache and neck ache and back ache and ache ache. He is swelling up like a balloon. He worries about imaginary pain and ignores real pain. He stares at the wall for a while. He drinks a coffee. He draws some pictures. He wipes his hands until they are red and raw. He sneezes but he is not sure whether it is because of allergies of because he is dying from some unknown disease or if he is being tickled by angel wings. He goes to sleep having wasted the day.

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