I am a cloud floating in the sky, and the sky is stored inside a jar

I am a cloud floating in the sky, and the sky is stored inside a jar. Each day I watch a part of me drizzle, on dirt puddles, on metallic fences and monoliths made of glass. Sometimes I knock on people’s heads, who are nailed to benches or gliding over the coiling streets. It is a damp, drizzly July, no one bothers to look up. And there I go—from pipelines, drainages and sewages—to the open sea. It is here that I see the man I love glinting in the azure waves. The horizon stretches out before us. What will happen if we continue walking East? Will we drown together? Will we perish in the Sun’s eternal embrace? On a piece of ancient rock, I watch him swoop down into a blanket of coral and tiny fishes, among other billions that make up an "ocean", which is also a flat, blue rectangle when viewed from a distance. Or sometimes, a sparkling pool of champagne on posters I see. The man has vanished. Then, I find myself rocking on a train that slithers through the darkest part of the city. A man is in front of me, standing with a puffy existence in my nose. Like other passengers, he does not have a face. Nine thousand seven hundred and fourteen days since I started the journey, my eyes are becoming hazy. I must do something to stay awake. I begin reading the man’s posh grey checkered shirt: cell1, cell2, cell3, cell4, cell5...

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