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It is so boring to tell dreams. Do not tell your dreams. But last night my suspicion that someone walks around our house when we are not there was confirmed, because actually through our house is the only way to get from the street below to the warehouse of my subconscious and its fruit trees. If you go a bit further on our balcony, press through the trees and palms and vines; there around you are apples and avocados (over-ripe, I squashed one in my hand) hanging from trees clearly beyond the capacity of a suspended steel tray. From there, squeeze through a stone door like a crypt and up spiral stairs into an unconverted warehouse with dusty floors, shabby furniture and unmade beds; empty apart from the stranger who has been sneaking through our house.

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