Sitting in a cab to somewhere I am staring at my pale reflection, through my pale reflection, through the glass, through the rain, through the streets, the country, the world. Like dust, dancing in the sunlight that falls through the ceiling of an old attic, memories, parts of mine, fill the air. Close enough to touch, but already lived once and forever.

The heartbeat of the Thanh Pho is fast, and my own heart tries to keep pace with it. The shutter clicks, again and again, to freeze the moments flashing by.

Fragments of the Thanh Pho.

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