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The old Mako. The one who hadn’t been curated. The one who danced for no one. The one who was entertainment not as a product, but as an overflow of being alive.
But Mako wasn’t listening.
The footage played on a cracked monitor.
The old Mako. The one who hadn’t been curated. The one who danced for no one. The one who was entertainment not as a product, but as an overflow of being alive.
But Mako wasn’t listening.
The footage played on a cracked monitor.