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The skeletal gleam of car parks arcing in the dark, hellbent in all directions and showing off their scars, keeps eerily appearing, painstakingly rebuilt where midnight fridge-light's spilt. Distinct chills still sit in storage behind the attic hatch in piles of pining nineties sports bags set on dragging up the past. But this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted at all. Twilights might find it trying to forge alternate stories from punk band incantations and the things I filled junk drawers with, but this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted. No, this house is hardly haunted at all. Perhaps there were months upon months of spectacular jumps upon jumps. But with every one landed, and snack wrappers trashed or dispersed by the time that first light burst, no-one remembers 'cause no-one got hurt.
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