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I get the unusual impression that I'm on a sofa in Scriabin's flat and that Dinova is also there, at the piano and channeling his spirit. So it's a kind of imaginary musical séance, I guess.
This is where my thoughts pool as a reservoir of miscellany and peculiarity. It's actually not my brain that's dripping -- it's my soul that's leaking. It's really no big deal.
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