I’m strolling down a bustling city road and wind up behind her. She’s apparently great. Her delicate balayage hair, luxurious camel trench coat and pointed dark cowhide lower leg boots. She strolls with a quality of both certainty and advancement, not requesting anything, but rather not stowing away either. As my blurred green tennis shoes tread behind her I feel as though I am sinking into myself. I just as of late had my hair done, yet all of a sudden it feels frizzier than ordinary. My chaotic eyebrows start to tingle and my two-year-old, no-name coat overloads me, obsolete.

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