No one in the windows, no one in the yard. An abandoned bunker in an ancient battlefield. It was a fold of space, of time, or of the manuscript page that contains them, the brane of the universe folded itself over, the bane of its own existence, maybe, and I now found myself on the other side of a curl longer than a quarter century. It was like it was and also not like it was; it felt like a déjà vu, in which not the image, ah Vaschide, but the emotion floods over you, overwhelms you. It was like an afternoon daydream or a dream at night, a dream with houses taking shape in the intense magic
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