The simulators depart, let reality decay. The paint starts peeling off the sky, drifting down, blue flakes mixing with the cherry blossoms
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A dying neon light flickers in the sky, the air fills with alien scents of decomposing physics, graffiti appears on the insides of eggshells
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Approximately one figure in a trench coat stands at corner of between two and seven roads, offering passers-by illicit reasonable certainty
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