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A person with long black hair wearing a beige trench coat faces away from the camera and holds a red and yellow apple in their right hand over a container of apples in a dimly lit grocery store.

“For a long time, I went to bed early,” begins the first page of Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), written in exquisitely-formed cursive by an unknown reader, whose second-hand folio I found for two dollars at a used book sale.

A panoramic photo taken at night on the top of a hill capturing downtown Vancouver lit up in the distance and some power lines and a bus driving in motion past the perpendicular street in the forefront.

I wonder if it feels so good to watch strangers because they’re just postcards to me — maybe I simply see in them what I would see in myself if I ever turned toward my own reflection in the window.

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