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... under his skin as if it had been engraved with molten iron and each step he took felt as if he was dragging the weight of a dying huge man whose full weight is left for him to carry.

Kelvin kept going home but he thought to himself can that place be called a home because it is a deep empty shell of an old container situated under the bones of a collapsed overpass. The walls of the house is made of scraps and broken traps with the smell of rusted metals lingering in the air like a choking ...

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