LITERARY PAGE
"Physicality is not an implication, rather an expression."
LOVEBOT
– J.R.
SHANTELLE
–Amy Dunne
His eyes darted towards the bright screen beside him, his phone was buzzing with notifications again. He sighs, unsure about what to do or say to the person on the other end. His skin crawled for no apparent reason, it was as if some kind of force had taken over. His thoughts were filled with ideas on how he could make up with the other.
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He grabbed his phone and went to start what he needed. He was about to create an online site for his partner whom he hasn't responded to for hours now. He wanted to do something special for them.
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He started writing extensive letters that explained how much he loved their eyes and how their hands perfectly intertwined. He sighs as deep down he wished he could actually hold hands with the person on the other side, but that was not meant to be, he thought.
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But nevertheless, he felt that deep down he had made someone's day. Neither of them was dating each other, rather it was their muses that like each other.
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But why was he creating something so extravagant to a person he's never met before? Why was he exerting and giving time for someone who barely knows him?
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Maybe they don't know each other and maybe they may never meet, but one thing for sure is that his muse loves the other very much and that he will keep it that way to make him and himself happy.
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After hours, he finally gave his gifts, he smiled at the other's reaction, he imagined how their smile would reach from ear to ear and how they would tackle them in a hug and give them kisses, but this was the best he could have, seeing them act like they're actually kissing, that was enough for him.
Lull. Heavy pants dampened what I should be heeding. Inchmeal, sweat beads cloaked me with anxiety. A sudden shudder washed over me as my orbs glued its sight to the blank canvas before me. Parched by the darkness that crept within me, tears became imperceptible.
“Day eight hundred and eighty-six,” my knees wobbled as I clenched my fist, feeling the rusty taste of blood from auspiciously wounding my own flesh. “If stars can have feelings, it would be like the two stars who are-,” I gulped, feeling thorns sprouting from my throat. And without even I blink, I became mute.
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Shaking my head at disbelief, I clenched my hold from the Olympus J300 microcassette recorder who became my comrade with this war I couldn’t even perceive. There it goes again, like a broken record, the room was swiftly filled a nostalgic voice.
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“Belle âme,” my breath hitched as if hearing bad news while a beep occurs from the mechanical ventilation machine. I felt his breath brushed against my nape. It was so soothing. It felt home, like the comforting ambiance of the kitchen where your mom baked your favorite cookies. The yearning desire to finally be able to have that deep slumber from a tiring long day.
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I felt his grip lose around me as he chuckles lowly. “Were you waiting for me?” he suddenly posed, grabbing his palette as he goes through the different brushes from the box. I took a deep breath, making sure I wouldn’t stutter as I speak. “I was just about to start,” I flashed a small smile without even glancing at him. “You still have that?” he turned at me, gazing at the recorder in my hands. Before I could even utter a syllable, his lingering scent made me smile widely. “She’s a great listener,” I quipped.
“If stars can have feelings, it would be like the two stars who are next to each other,” he suddenly blurts out as he snakes his arms around my waist, resting his chin on top of my right shoulder while I hummed and snickered. “The star who have less light is obviously shy to confess his feelings,” he added as his eyes were interrogating the painting I just made. Dipped into black with little white spots above two figures who were adoring the vast vault of heaven.
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He loved metaphors, maybe that’s why he became one. “While the other one who’s lighter is the one he likes because stars who light brighter are beautiful. And, his light will get brighter if only he could confess his feelings. Then, both of them will become a beautiful couple.” Silence suddenly enveloped the scope like a deafening sound. And in a snap, the stars lost its brightness.
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I gasped for air as I hastily opened my eyes, feeling a tear ran down my cheek. Messily narked my hair as I pulled my knees close to me. And before I could even know, I was already drowning to something I haven’t even seen.
As if I was cursed, this became a routine. Waking up in the midst of this obscure expedition to nowhere and sleepless nights as I cry myself of an unsubstantial phenomenon. But, it felt real. The kisses he showered me every time I felt drifting from what I love. The hugs he clothed me every time I felt cold. And constantly, when we near the station, it disappears. It concludes.
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Yet, I knew. I knew deep down what it was. It was something I fabricated with my own bare hands and that every poem I wrote for him felt like a eulogy. Every night was like pre-funeral of the euphoria I built with him. And I knew. I knew it was Shantelle that he loved.
TRAIN OF THOUGHT: MIND THE GAP
–Lily
Another day went by without me noticing. It seems as though when the sun is out, I am not. In fact, when the rays hit my face, I know it is nothing more than my mask that glows. I open my phone. Yes, that is the first thing I do. I open my phone and open pieces of myself up to people who will likely never know me. It’s strange, isn’t it? And you want this to confuse you but, somehow, it doesn’t. You understand perfectly fine, both of us on the same page as an age-old chapter.
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Oh, dear love, you left me flowers I can’t smell. My sweet love, I’ve received kisses that touch my heart but never my skin. Oh my dear sweet love, are you even aware that you love me? This is where we diverge. Because I think you love me, but not me. And I? Well, as foolish as it is, I already love you yet I want the chance to love you. It’s quite peculiar, isn’t it? And you want to stop reading because none of this is making sense to you but, somehow, you can’t tear your eyes away. You comprehend and hold onto each word I’m saying.
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Time is ticking, tok. The grains of sand in the hourglass slowly drip, drop. With the sinking of the sun, comes the rising of the moon. With the good nights of the fairy tale prince, come greetings from the king of reality. It is unspoken, but we hear it loud and clear, or is it just me? Is it always going to be solely me that hears these voices? It’s funny, isn’t it? That I’m the one staying true but it is me who gets told I’m wrapped around in such delusions and that, somehow, I’m insane for thinking it could be anything more than the words we read. You shake your head but it is more than just your judgment subjected to me. You sit there staring at a screen and think to yourself you’ve done it before and haven’t we all?
I tell you about my day and you tell me of yours. But my day is not with the sun, no, it is my day behind the veil that you hear. You hear it loud and clear, don’t you? The squabble with my sibling, the scolding of my guardian, the laughter that echoes in the empty living room- my laughter. Your days are the same as mine. Your nights are, too, surprisingly. When the summary under the sun has ended, we turn to tell even more stories. And I wonder, if these stories, if these words, should be trapped in boxes- yes, those boxes. But no, they are free. Are we? Am I? To feel? To think? To dare imagine that this goes past our imagination? It’s quite terrifying, isn’t it? And I want to stop it before it’s too late and before I meet the same fate but, somehow, deep down, I don’t want to. You could be reading this with pure disdain in my propositions or delight in that I share your feelings and have spoken for the both of us. That is, if you even sympathize with these sentiments.
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I’ve said too much and the sun is coming up. The daylight peaks through the windows and I can no longer stay in the cold tiled room. In bed, I lie thinking of the truths. In five hours time, it will be once upon a time once again.
SUNSHINE THROUGH THE PHONE
– Theseus.
UNTITLED
– Diwata.
He wasn't looking for love no,
He joined this world just to show
His love for writing and endless imagination
And somehow have friends and build strong relations.
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But then one night he met someone,
Someone who sparked joy that he felt himself lacking .
He realized this world he joined was draining,
So the joy he sought was brought by one.
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One who seemed like she was his parallel.
They both have a bunch of similarities, anyone could tell,
But at the same time they're both different people.
Her being extroverted and him wanting to be in his hole.
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It fascinated him how relationships worked in this world.
They need not to be with each other physically but through word.
The writer in him jumps for joy every time they talked.
Who knew how descriptive he could get on their dates even while they just walked?
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Cheesy pick-up lines, sparkly eyes and lines he got from reading his books.
Those he used in their descriptive lit.
He didn't think those would work but she said it made her heart flutter,
So that's what he did, one sweet gesture after another.
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Curious to think how his happiness depended on her.
Whenever she's happy he's happy as well, oh what a wonder.
Although he knows this is all role-play,
He also hoped her op had a great day.
You're like a hurricane
while I was like the rain.
I was playing it safe,
but you were treacherous.
You remind me of the alcohol I hate.
Bitter, cold, and intoxicating.
Ironic, cause I'll drink it anyway.
Getting drawn to you was out of my way,
but I took the path,
and I have no plan of running away.
The color of your eyes gives the vibe of life,
tho it also shows how dead you are inside.
I can write many things about you,
but I'll stop and won't continue
because I'm the rain,
not the hurricane.
He witnessed a lot of weddings taking place on the timeline.
He vowed to himself he'll work hard in their relationship,
In the hopes of one day planning their wedding with Lifetime.
Though sometimes relationships are hard and he could use a tip.
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He'll make blunders on the way, that he knew
What with his temper and overthinking oh he rues.
The day he hurts her, he'll get on his knees for forgiveness.
If he could, he would hug her and shower her face with kisses.
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Quite interesting it is to see him get so invested in an online, and RP relationship.
But he knew she's worth it and he would never abandon ship.
So he hopes to express it through his words, funny that his actions in this situation are still words,
How much he loves and he wants to be with her, how grateful he is for her in his life and her impact, her sunshine on his world.
TADHANA AT TABING
–Takipsilim.
Madaling sabihin na hindi sagabal ang distansya kung tunay ninyong mahal ang isa't-isa— ngunit iba pala kapag nando'n ka na mismo sa eksena.
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Hindi pala sapat kahit ga'no kasidhi ang iyong nararamdaman kung t'wing matatapos ang inyong usapan, hindi pala ikaw ang tinuturing niyang paraluman.
Anong laban ng tulad kong milya-milya ang layo sa'yo, sa taong ilang minuto lamang ang tatahakin at nariyan na sa tabi mo?
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Inutil nga akong maituturing,
pinasok ang pag-iibigang limitasyon ay tabing,
masakit ang pag-ibig na muntikan,
ngunit mas masakit pala ang pag-ibig na wala kang kalaban-laban.
LOVE AS IT IS
–Balisong
Seventh of July
was when we started.
Spend seven months of love,
but it has already ended.
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She said she was sorry,
and she was already tired.
She said she fell out of love,
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and found someone else
who can make her feel loved.
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Her words are still stuck
in my head,
screaming repeatedly,
and wailing in regret.
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I should have
express it more.
I should have
loved you more.
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I remember you, saying,
I should treat love like a plant;
I cannot rush its growth...
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Disagreeing with your idea
made you think
my love will not grow
in our relationship.
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But it was not anything
like that at all...
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For a plant will wither
as time goes by,
But my love for you
is a thing that will never die.
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Which one of us is wrong?
Me, treating love,
and self-love fairly?
​
Or is it you, who said
I did not love you enough
because of my troubles
of expressing it?
​
Physicality is not an implication,
rather an expression.
​
Yet, you judged my love
based on my physical affection.
​
Respecting my privacy
when it comes to relationship,
does not mean
I trust you less.
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Not posting about
our relationship in public
did not make me
less proud of you.
​
Not knowing
how to show love,
did not make me
love you less.
​
Please, tell me,
Is it wrong to
treat love as it is?
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Loving you is a thing
that I will not forget,
​
but as well as the pain
that you made me feel
when you left.
UNTITLED
– Cortana.
PECULIAR YEARNINGS
–Lila Sky.
You can only truly love if you’ve touched the person. That’s what I grew up with. I’ve hugged, kissed, and caressed all of those near and dear to my heart. My mother, whom I lovingly kissed on the cheeks before going to school. My father, whose arms I run into after a long tiring day. My friends who I miss the most; they deny their fondness for physical affection but in reality, they all just need a hug.
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I’ve expressed every amount of love I have through the human body that I’ve been given. However, I never knew it was very much possible to love and be loved without ever knowing the feeling of their skin against your fingertips.
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I’m a lover and I am one’s beloved. Yet I have never felt the sensation of their touch even once in my life. If I did, I wouldn't have known it was them. I have yearned their affection through the screen which they have loved me in. It was wonderful albeit weird — to want and need the strong and unwavering commitment they have offered me but not fully grasping what I thought was needed to be in that said commitment: physical affection.
After months of staying in this other-worldly realm that I have stumbled upon, I have come to a strange conclusion.
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I need not know how to touch them nor do I need to know how and when will I feel their skin against mine. Physical affection has no business to be involved when it is impossible. It’s an expression; like words and metaphors. You murmur words of certainty and passion the same way you feel them shudder in pleasure — careful and attentive.
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I yearn for his love the same way everyone else does in this world; through a personality drawn by the fantasy I wish to live in, actualized by the screen in front of me and a face I borrow. That is my peculiar yearning.
A lone lamp post stands in the darkness, yellowed bulb flickering on and off in time to a rhythm unknown to anything other than itself.
​
For six years it has stood there, unmoving, weathering torrential rain and scorching heat, witnessing the seasons come and go in an unending cycle.
​
In its fourth year, in the midst of another night spent watching over the same side of the bricked path, something came that stirred its interest and drove away the incessant drone of ennui and monotony.
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Its bulb flickers, dies, and when it regains life, a figure now stands next to it, dressed as always in a familiar coat and hat, although the same cannot be said about the rest of it.
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The lamp post has spent enough time watching humans pass by, hearing the vibrations of sound and voice and weight and pace thunder through the pavement and into its metal frame, that it knows that the figure is a male for tonight. Yesterday, it knew it was a she. Tomorrow, it has yet to find out.
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"Hello there, friend."
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The words are rasped out, sounding of saltwater and frost and a lifetime's worth of smoke, the way the old man smelling of fish and brine would sound when he came home from the docks.
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"Hello."
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It vibrates in greeting, and it knows that he, unlike so many others, understood it and its peculiar way of communication.
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"Lovely evening. I garner we might see some interesting 'uns tonight."
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Even his manner of speech is different. Yesterday she spoke in the lilting soprano of French-tinged English. Now he sounded exactly like the sea as it smashes against the low sea walls on the coast. At least, it assumed that was what the sea sounded like. The lamppost did not know for certain, only hearing bits and pieces of it living in the waterbirds that sometimes roosted on its arch.
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It stays silent, letting its light wink in and out of existence as the odd pair waits.
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And waits.
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And waits.
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"What is love?"
​
It hums, asking again. The man in the coat shrugs in response, his broad shoulders cresting and falling like the tide.
​
"It can be many things."
​
He grunts out the same answer that he's always given it everytime it has asked.
​
"Have you ever experienced it?" It prods, bulb managing to last a mere minute before going out again. He does not move, though by the sudden cold around its pole, it knows he has exhaled the air in his lungs.
​
"I have."
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He fishes around the depths of his coat before pulling out what seemed to be a small carton box. It waits as he procures a stick, lights the tip, and releases the first plume of smoke into the frigid evening.
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"My wife. My mother sends me on many missions, so I seldom see her."
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The lamppost hums again, less so to convey thoughts, but more so to signify that it was listening. He continued to speak.
​
"'tis hard, you know? we as beings are fluid, are able to take on many shapes and many forms, look however we wish to, and are often set apart from our loved 'uns. My wife, I've only seen her once recently, and that was two summers ago."
He puffs out another cloud, the weak light from its bulb glinting off against the smoke as it rose into the sky. It vibrates, curious, and it senses the man turn his head, just ever so slightly, to look at him.
"Then how do you say that what you have is love?"
​
The man sighs, sounding very much like how the ocean would sigh, full of depth and secrets.
"One would know. My gut tells me a young 'un would be passing by tonight to answer your question."
​
The lamppost only stands still, and let its light wink in and out of existence as the man draws deeply from his stick.
Again, the odd pair remains there in silence and in wait.
As the clock down the bend chimes seven times to signify the turning into a new hour, the familiar thud-thud-thud of hurried footfalls against pavement quivers through the ground and into the lamppost's metal frame.
Neither move as a young man of about two decades stops right underneath its wavering light. They see him bend down, hands on his knees ( 'to catch his breath,' it supposed ), hunched back heaving in exertion.
They see him turn on a small rectangle of metal in his hand ( 'a cellphone,' as it remembers it's called ), and they see the way his face is lit up by the screen. His eyes flit across it, much like the way leaves do across the path during the windier days of fall, before he straightens up and continues his sprint towards his destination, disappearing soon into the darkness.
​
"He is on his way to the hospital just over yonder." The man who sounds like salt and smoke said.
​
"He was supposed to be on a date tonight, but his little sister got injured at home on his way to the restaurant. Poor thing, broke her arm in several places."
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"Is that love?" The lamppost inquired, yellow light momentarily glowing brighter before going out again.
"Yes." The man answered simply.
​
"But not the one you're looking for tonight."
​
"Oh."
​
They remain silent after that, again lying in wait for the next person to pass by.
​
Three puffs of smoke later, a series of sharp clicks and clacks against pavement makes its way into the lamppost's metal frame.
​
Neither move as a young woman of about two decades and a half stops right underneath its wavering light. They see her tuck her hand into her coat pocket and pull out a stick that looks like what the man is smoking ( 'a cigarette,' it finally remembers. )
​
They see her turn on a familiar rectangle of metal in her hand ( 'another cellphone,' it thinks ), and they see the way her face too, is lit up by the screen. Her eyes lazily passes over it, much like the way the dandelions that grew in a crack in front of the lamppost moved in the breeze two summers ago. They see her tap out a reply before striding off, disappearing soon into the darkness.
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"She is on her way to meet with another client just a few houses down." The man who sounds of salt and smoke said.
"Her parents barely make enough to feed themselves, and nobody would accept her, so she decided to seek other forms of employment. those with more, carnal connotations."
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"Is that love?" The lamppost hums, bulb blinking on and off in curiosity.
​
"Yes." The man answered simply.
​
"But still not the one you're looking for tonight."
​
"Oh."
​
Silence falls between them once again, heavy with the weight of waiting and light with excitement to finally know the answer to one of the its most burning questions.
​
The man reaches for another stick ( 'cigarette,' the lamppost corrects itself ), sets the tip alight, and takes a deep pull, filling himself with the smoke.
​
Three puffs later, it feels something different making its way through the pavement. They were footfalls, it was sure of that, and yet these did not feel like the hurried sprint of the young man, nor the bored steps of the young woman.
​
No, these felt... odd.
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Neither move as a young one just a year shy of two decades stops right underneath its wavering light. They see her give her cheeks a few pats, warding away the cold and lending a rosy tint to the skin, lips quirked up into a small smile.
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They see her turn on the phone in her hand, and they see the way her face lights up along with the screen. her eyes caress the words displayed on the glass, much like the way snowflakes would gently skid across the lamppost's pole in the early days of winter. They see her smile grow, and her eyes shine, and her hands fly across the screen, before it is promptly turned off. They see her hug it to her chest before she continues, disappearing soon into the darkness.
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"She is on her way home." The man who sounds like salt and smoke said.
​
"She just received news that her lover of four years – who lives a long ways from here, mind you – finally got into the program that he's always dreamt of. she just made plans to contact him later to properly celebrate, despite the time difference."
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"Is that love?" The lamppost inquires again, attempting to maintain the light that its bulb was currently giving off.
​
The answer falls softly from its companion's lips.
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"Yes."
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The bulb goes out, and when it comes alive again, the man has disappeared back into the shadows of the evening.
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The lamppost now stands alone again in the darkness, yellowed bulb flickering on and off in time to a rhythm unknown to anything other than itself.