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One of the few things I have genuinely missed from my old life, maybe the one I have craved most of all, is the sensation of wetness. I donít know why, it does seem vaguely absurd to obsess over such a seemingly insignificant sensation and value it higher than other things long gone, like great art or literature. But then, who ever said that the human mind made sense? If thereís one thing Iíve come to realise, itís that it doesnít.
Wet, just the word, the taste of it, still reminds me of bliss. Thinking about it, bit by bit starting to obsess over it, just having to feel the sensation behind the short, one syllable word. Itís ridiculous, Iíve been unplugged for a long time, have long since grown adapted and accustomed to this new life, the real world. But still. The real things that I feel here often feel like nothing more than poor ersatz products. I suppose it serves to remind me that reality isnít pretty, that most things I remember with a smile were constructed to make me smile and keep me passive. But stillÖ
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* 20 Years Ago - 1979 - Age 17 *
"Thomas!" the brown-eyed dark-haired mother yelled, "Thomas! Your breakfast is ready!"
Scraping the pans with her dull spatula, Michelle Anderson scooped the greasy bacon and sunny-side-up eggs from the pans, and tossed them onto the plastic lime-green plate. Flinging her towel onto the kitchen counter, she yelled even louder. "Thomas!"
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