Weaving, weaving, weaving. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He’s trapped in another dimension, close to the land of Barbie dolls. I am here, enslaved by the degree I wanted so much and of which I keep doubting. I read, he reads, we type.

Six years, and we’ll get out of the labyrinth. Nous sortirons.

Six years seem like an awful lot of time. All I can do is seek refuge in music. Will patience last so long?

Only time itself will tell.

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