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  1. Shigeo Kageyama’s beginnings had started and ended multiple times throughout this one day...That sounded much more interesting, when you left it at that.  —
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  3. Mysterious, almost. So many paths that wove in and out of what Shigeo, of what Mob was gently beginning to disassemble, had been convinced a day was. He was young, he was growing and everything around him was infinitely new, interesting, invigorating. So that’s why he wasn’t particularly estranged with the idea of ‘timelessness.’ “...” Timelessness like this, was an old friend.
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  5. In all of the stories he had ever pushed himself to actually read, Mob had found one irrefutable constant: To every beginning, there had to be an end. So what did that mean for him? And where did the beginnings, begin? That was a question far too unspecific. He wasn’t sure how to approach it. No, not at all. Above all and foremost... Mob felt awkward.
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  7. Awkward, when he tried to remember.
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  9. Because, in all respect... His being here was hardly flattering. And that’s something he was unafraid to unabashedly admit. How Mob had single handedly managed to not only land himself straight in the middle of a strange place, in a strange land? But he managed to do it in his offensive lonesome. Strange as it was, that was the easier part of adjusting to his new place in this, world. A world where Mob had immediately decided: He didn’t belong.
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  11. Hardship came in the form of reluctance. He was reluctant to move around too much. But the cold had been bitter, forlorn, blistering to the point of pain. While Shigeo fumbled up and down the streets, all those hours ago, without having encountered a single soul? He bundled to the best of his profuse inability. His dreary face grew drearier. His plain, lack-luster haircut went flying at the very mention of a cool, chilling wind that threatened and threatened Mob until -- out of his own preservation, he slipped inside one of the stores. Jumped like a cat, when he heard the bell chime and startle him out of his own self sufficient solace. “Ah--...” Mob had stopped, dead center, in the middle of the doorway. Gaping, without expression, at the inside of the convenience store. A fool who stood there, with the door open, looking as disheveled as someone like him could look. He breathed easily, in here-- though each breath stung his throat, and made him eerily aware of just how cold it was outside. “...Hello.” He’d call. But no one said it back... And, just like outside, the store had been empty when he’d gotten here. Fully stocked and everything, he’d come to find-- after realizing how foolish he’d seemed standing at the door, waiting for something that simply wasn’t there. Fully stocked freezers, shelves, but there wasn’t a single person behind the counter... The electricity blinked to life, the second he’d stepped inside... That was the first beginning. The cold. The first end. The store.
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  13. His second beginning was much more confounding. Certainly a spot of moral confusion, for Mob. Have you ever seen something as heart-wrenching as a solitary, lone middleschooler? Taking each step forward, and bracing himself against the rampant desire to wince whenever his footsteps were too squeaky and wet on the tile... He had seen so many things in those convenience store shelves. Things that he had never seen before. “Wow...” And for a time, it was alright. He could distract himself from the questions that pounded and pounded his skull but for the life of them and for the life of Mob could not penetrate the steel of his unmoving exterior. It only became troubling when... Ah.
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  15. He can’t read english... His body went a little, warm. With the embarrassment, and all. Thankfully, there had been no one present to visibly see him fumble and fail with trying to pronounce one of those words-- a pink stained his cheeks. His mouth a gaping, ashamed mast. Mm. “...”
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  17. Cold. Hungry. Displaced. “...” And more than once, he considered braving the cold rather than impeding upon this person’s shop. Their space. The second beginning made him long for the first. There was a roof over his head. He was allowed to think now. But, truly, was that a good thing? Was it a good idea to allow Mob the privilege to ferment on his circumstances? ... He held himself, slowly. Letting his uninspiring eyes trail to the right-- while his feet took him towards the wide, clattering shop window that he believed-- most likely had shop signs hanging from it, at one point in time... He looked lonelier than before, now that he didn’t have anything to do. And worst of all, it seemed as if it would never end. “...” Where was he? Why was he here? Where was his family... Where was his teacher? “...” His expression grew heavier. No more expressive than before, mind you. But, heavier. “...Sorry for intruding.”
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  19. A little late, but better than nothing at all.
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  21. progress towards mob's explosion: 26 %
  22. This wasn’t timeless. It was endless. Mob blinked once... twice... Staring back at his own impassive reflection that doesn’t even smile back at him... He touched a hand to the mirror, examining himself in bland earnest, and choosing to not shy away from the cold-- only supplying a jumping little ‘Oh.’ So maybe a beginning didn’t have to have an end, after all? “...”
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  24. For a second, he thought he had been seeing things. The student cocked his head, wordlessly.
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  26. Stared across the street, from the window. Where a person walked-- the first person. Unless it wasn’t? “...” ...You could almost tell that he was surprised. A remedial, quaint drop of sweat formed and stayed upon his cheek-- sheepish as anything should have been allowed to be, and he blinked blinked, awkwardly... Raising a hand-- Though, Licorice might not even see him. Licorice might not even be real--
  27.  
  28. ... Mob waved, despite that.
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  30. And mouthed, a quiet hello.
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