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It is a violating feeling to have your shit stolen. My cars have never been taken, of course, unless you count the one that was taken by god. Once a Frenchman stole my sunglasses in Nice, but I didn’t speak French, and my 5′ tall 90lb girlfriend wasn’t that threatening — even to a Frenchman — when she confronted the suspect.
What have I been up to, you seem to ask? Oh, nothing. I’m practicing restraint. I’m sitting here with a solid sense of proportion and perspective. Also, I’m playing with an old nuclear reactor. Turns out it still works, control rods sliding into place with German precision, dials and levers protected from time’s ravages by dust. After some initial calibration, I looked up from my control panel, its warm glow reflecting off my goggles. Energy began to arc in crisp bolts, old light bulbs flickered and then burned brightly. Turns out it still pumps out electricity. But how safely? And at what cost?
You have 48 hours to unravel my metaphor,