50 lede

Grünerløkka by Adam Moorad

I think it was the codeine; this was after my money wire arrived. I had checked into a backpacker motel indefinitely: a room with four walls, each painted a different color, each peeled; the ceiling too. It was Oslo, the dead of winter; every hour felt late. Awaking fully clothed and bleeding from my nose in the bathtub, my hands had pruned and were shaking. I felt jetlagged, I remembered naught.
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