Once there was a girl who lived alone, but she was not as alone as she wanted to be. She lived in the heart of a city, a middling city, a city of no great importance by the sea, and every day she walked through crowds and against crowds and around crowds, and heard the people’s conversations, and smelled their trash, and saw their children, and waited politely for their cars to pass before crossing the street.
So she took herself and she moved further west in the city, where the streets flattened out and the sun took its time setting in the evening and there was room for her. This was better, but she was still almost never alone. There was always someone coming around the next corner, always a car idling down the street, always someone’s voice echoing from a few houses over. Someone always needed something, someone always wanted something.
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