Existence<br />
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	Here in the kitchen you sit on a stool, facing a window to the suburban world outside of my abode. Here you rest my arms on top of the island in front of you. You have an empty small glass. The glass is accompanied by four tall bottles. Your mouth is parched, dry to the point it burns. You gaze at the cold bottles with a lust. Your thirst desires their soothing coolness. You pour the first bottle, a thick black liquidated licorice. It has a sour smell. You pour the second bottle, sm