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Balcony view, skimming De La Rochefoucauld maxims, Monaco's orange sunset dips behind the water, numbers come and go, art comes and goes. Through the open curtains, a girl lays in a heap on the bed, well asleep. An ashtray contains ten or eleven stubbed out cigarettes. An urge rests beneath my skin: to throw this glass bottle of wine from eight stories high, to scream, to feel the world as my own.
