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The truth is, I don’t know how long I’ve been looking. All I know is I have to keep going.

Walking through the city I catch reflections everywhere. Fragmented body in a bar mirror. Face in a shop window, fleeting and unfamiliar. A face torn between a frown and a smile, one that startles every time when it looks back at me from the rain splattered window of a taxi. All of these things yet none of them. They belong to the person walking through an ordinary life while her soul searches for the other.

I could tell you what I once was but not what I’ve become. There’s no name for what I’ve become. A shadow, a longing, a shade of blue, an old song, a perfumed sigh gliding past in the dark, a stranger’s eyes, a smoky bar, a scent. A scent I follow through the streets at night hoping it’ll lead me someplace a little closer. It’s nostalgic, it makes me ache for more. It brings me out of my current dream. Just for a moment. Scent of verdant cologne, cognac and cigarettes.

Another reality superimposes itself on this one. All the cities and all the eras merge into one, spinning me into confusion. San Francisco, Tokyo, New York, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong. The thread running through them all always connects back to this story.

The thread tangles through this urban wilderness choking pathways and tripping up all my intentions to set things straight. In the deepest part of night, with the right kind of dream, the thread unwinds as if by magic, winding back to the past, reeling me in.

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