27 The Fourth Run Is Different

#081

1.

“Phew….”

I took off my helmet.

Crimson leaves, as if the whole world were on fire.

Fresh autumn air, incomparable to the sewer, tickled my lungs.

There was still some slimy, meat-dough-like stuff stuck to my cheek, which was gross, but anyway.

“I’m craving a maple-viewing trip.”

I wanted to lay out a mat, drink booze, and admire the leaves.

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