I called Marci giving her the address of an old abandoned warehouse I owned in Queens New York, I asked her to meet me there. The rap of her boot heels echoing off the concrete walls is the only sound as she walks into the warehouse and walks down the long building looking for me. She stopped. The yellowish green fluorescent lights bother her eyes. The floor is damp—wet in places with puddles of black water—and the peeling concrete walls are crumbling in places. This warehouse is a dump, decrepit and depressing and disorienting too. It stinks of gasoline and diesel...
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