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(Warning: Shitty, unfinished surrealism ahead.)

I had to stop at 7-Eleven to get a drink, so I pulled over and parked outside. The lime green light of the sign flickered through my car window as I pushed on the red, rusting door of my car, ignoring its fleeting cry. It was cold out and snow had begun spinning toward the ground, grabbing hold of my hair and shoulders to avoid the floor. A man walked by, depressing foot-shaped craters in the now knee-deep snow, repeating the same unanswered question over and over again. “Lucy? Where are you, Honey?” He looked at me for a second, raising his hand to his forehead as if he were to salute me. His lips contorted into shapes, spewing words I could no longer understand. He turned away and continued onward, disappearing into the flood of flowing white. I tried to take a step forward, toward the 7-Eleven, but found myself unable to see the quivering glow of the neon sign. White surrounded me and I could no longer breathe, so I turned to go home.

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