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I
don't
know
why
I'm
here.
I
mean,
I
do.
I'm
nervous,
I
guess.
Anxious.
I
don't
sleep
that
well.
And
my
hands...
they're
fine
now.
It's
like
when
you
have
a
problem
with
your
car
and
you
go
to
a
mechanic
and
it's
not
doing
it
anymore.
Not
that
you're
a
mechanic.
I
guess
a
lot
of
people
must
come
here
worried
about
the
bomb.
Is
that
true?
It's
a
common
nightmare,
people
say.
I
read
it
in
a
magazine.
My
mother
always
told
me
that
it
wasn't
polite
to
talk
about
yourself.
She
passed
away
recently.
I
guess
I
already
said
that.
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