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Great pillars rise above us, casting shadows where we sit. Beyond, Babel's melange of calls, shouts and the rumble of something large, Spring-like, hunger inducing, worn, underneath it all.

Lunch time at the British Museum, where I find a wooden bench by the entrance, watch tourists pour in and out, the salty scent of crisps on my fingers.

The old man in sunglasses faces me as he returns to my side.

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