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I can't see its face. My memories are floating aimlessly around in someone's brain. The deserted-ness of the drenched and poorly-lit industrial streets are somehow always preferred to other nights. Dilapidated double-story factories had reflected their rain-speckled broken windows, in the patternless overflowing potholes on the once beehive double carriage way, past what had become a solitary solution to out-of-hand crime in South Africa. In some limited ways, it is still a world, I suppose. What could pass maybe for a world, if we grip hard enough onto the hope of escaping what the Justice-System had come to, that is. I swapped tranquil reality, for rules by which to survive a little longer, till it was time. What had been a softer world of laughs, hugs, and pastels, predictable but aimless walks - hand-in-hand with Jill through art galleries, the sounds and feels of her spontaneous giggles and comforting any-minute-of-the-day hugging, the intoxicating drinking-in of the finest fragrance, when her skin whisked that sweet floral perfume into something otherworldly - that couldn't be bought - 'then' framed the world - and everything else was secondary.