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it was a kerouac sleep; all mischief in cars and dogs on airplanes. I didn’t recognize anyone, not even myself. I had come from the future to live in their past, but I made it my own with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a penchant for the late night catapult. Somewhere on the edge of these dreams is truth. The thing you ache to be when the tired day can’t hold you any longer.