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literature
Long night.
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Literature Text
It's eleven fifty-three. Or what i prefer, twenty three hundred o'clock. I have been avoiding my co-worker for six hours. My job call three hours ago. They don't think i am working. I am, just not how they want me to. It is cold and dropping outside. My toes and fingers are fine. My almost empty tummy won't growl tonight. I have no comfort here. Five hours to go. Then repeat. I miss my messy apartment, and my filthy bed. I tolerate this, but it's time to move on.
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