T.D. Whittle

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The map was simply drawn, yet it seemed to contain some sort of power. For four days, alone in my room, with the map before me, I wandered in that world that isn’t here, caught up so deeply in that visual hallucination machine (type of thing) I gradually couldn’t tell which world I belonged to. Like some eighteenth-century aesthetic poet addicted to opium in search of a pure illusion.
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The City and Its Uncertain Walls
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