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I’ve been having a dream, every once in a while, ever since we retreated from Moscow, two years ago. Ever since I left you behind.
It’s the image of a silent city, in ruins, smoking still. I am present as a spirit in another man’s body. I see what he sees and move with him. He comes out from an underground shelter and looks around, while his eyes become accustomed to the light of the sun. There’s a car crashed nearby, with the player still on, and a sound of old jazz. Behind the man there is a woman, I cannot see her because he doesn’t look at her, but he keeps talking to her, showing her things. They don’t seem to share my horror, beholding the charred city.
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