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Few feelings leave more of a bitter taste than that of being used, squeezed dry of vitality and made a cog in some vast machine milking us dry and too blind us to our own misery, shoving in our mouths and minds a bone to chew on, intoxicated by the taste of blood from our own bleeding gums…

He muzzles his way through the glass door inside the cafe, curls up and dozes off.

a blind writer meets a blind reader...