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The balloon says: "You made me. You made me and you left me in a folder called 'old shit.'"
You turn the page.
Page three. Kirtu is sitting in a coffee shop you visited once in Portland, 2019. He's across from a woman you almost loved. She's blurred, like someone smudged the ink while it was still wet. Kirtu's mouth is open. The balloon is still empty.
The real world.
