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I cupped a bowl of coffee in my hands, wondering what I was doing back home. A single word had brought me from Earth; one I’d always expected to hear but after seventeen years had almost forgotten.
That word was shit: more or less my state of mind.
Grossart had promised to meet me in a coffeehouse called Sloths, halfway up Strata City. I’d had to fight my way to a two-seater table by the window, wondering why that table -- with easily the best view -- just happened to be empty. I soon found out: Sloths was directly under the jumping-off point for the divers, and one of them would often slam past the window. It was like being in a skyscraper after a stock market crash. …
[via John DeNardo of SF Signal]
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