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I wake up, but where?  I don’t just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: “Where am I?”  As if I didn’t know: I’m here.  In my life.  A feature of the world that is my existence.  Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this condition, this state of affairs in which I feature.  There might be a woman sleeping next to me.  More often, I’m alone.  Just me and the expressway that runs right next to my apartment, and, bedside, a glass (five millimetres of whiskey still in it) and the malicious—no make that indifferent—dusty morning light.  Sometimes its raining.  If it is, I’ll just stay in bed.  And if there’s whiskey still left in the glass, I’ll drink it.  And I’ll look at the raindrops dripping from the eaves, and I’ll think about the Dolphin Hotel.  Maybe I’ll stretch, nice and slow.  Enough for me to be sure I’m myself and not part of something else.

Dance Dance Dance
Haruki Murakami

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