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melbourne fiction
bogachko

It was a chilly wet winter evening in Melboune. I just had a dinner at a local dumpling joint and was wondering what I was doing here on the other side of the globe when it was supposed to be summer and girls were supposed to walk around in mini skirts and sort of please my eye. And then this old-fashioned carriage ruttled past me, as if right from an invisible crack in time. Things get unreal sometimes. And it feels like you have found yourslef inside a XIX-century French novel.

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