She yelled at me in a language I couldn’t understand. Or maybe I could but I didn’t want to. Or I understood but didn’t see. The urge to yell. The urge to tell what she felt. In the minute, I walked away, and even before, I thought her to be dead. To have stopped living a while ago. Maybe that was it. Maybe everything on this warm afternoon in MA-Jungbusch was about meeting.

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