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@hypnophobe

January. It was all things. And it was one thing, like a solid door. Its cold sealed the city in a gray capsule. January was moments, and January was a year. January rained the moments down, and froze them in her memory: the woman she saw peering anxiously by the light of a match at the names in a dark doorway, the man who scribbled a message and handed it to his friend before they parted on the sidewalk, the man who ran a block for a bus and caught it. Every human action seemed to yield a magic. January was a two-faced month, jangling like jester’s bells, crackling like snow crust, pure as any beginning, grim as an old man, mysteriously familiar yet unknown, like a word one can almost but not quite define.

Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

each clump of symbols is a brief, urgent message

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I started watching a show on Netflix called “I Am Not Okay With This” and I realized it was filmed in a mostly abandoned town I visited 8 years ago.

Brownsville, Pennsylvania (5/26/2012)