A girl walks home at night. Maybe she’s alone. Maybe she’s with someone. Maybe she’s alone, wishing she was with someone, or with someone wishing she was alone. Maybe the street is crowded. Maybe it’s lonely. Maybe it’s peppered with people, here and there, men and women or just men or no one. Maybe it’s cold and she’s wearing a coat or not and maybe she was out at the theatre or partying with friends and maybe she’s perfectly sober or drunk or high, perfectly; but in any case she’s walking home. Sober or not. Cold or not. Alone or with company. She’s walking home at night. Maybe she makes it.
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