Imagination touches me tenderly
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going to the public bath.
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Earlier, I had made eye contact with a young man who looked like a Showa era literary figure, sitting across from me on the subway. He had slightly long hair combed back, Lloyd glasses and a thin moustache. His jacket and shirt looked plump and well-fitted on his medium build and carrying a backpack. In the moment our eyes met, I was immersed in the thought of being shot and embracing him. I could even smell him.
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