Reading Rain in Islington. A normal lunch. I'm looking out. There's nothing real beyond the window, but I still want. Clusters of raindrops race each other down my car, and I think that's more interesting than my soup, now clustering in my beard ready to race itself in streaks down the front of my freshest, most-ironic t-shirt. So, will betting on these outcome improve my chances? Money will be exchanged from left-to-right pocket, but nothing real will emerge: the downpour is still unreadable, the soup still dribbles from my chin, and neither pool will actually fill me.
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