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Who are you? Who, who, who, who? I woke up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name. Yesterday, all my troubles didn't seem that far away, as I sorted through writings from long ago. I've sifted  through bits and pieces over time and they usually get allocated places and folders and labels. Not sure why. I'm not half the man I used to be. The writings from that time are quite often woven with angst, sometimes the threads become knotted, tightened, a feeling of nowhere to go. Now, I begin to let go of this shadow hanging over me. I'll sprinkle some pieces in the street, along the river, into the Earth.

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