Hiroshima Yeah!
issue 36
february 2008

Welcome to Hiroshima Yeah!, the zine that isn�t produced
as a calling card or audition tape for glossy
mag editors or TV execs. HY! is PROUD to be DIY, lo-fi and
badly photocopied. The rules that govern the tasteless
melting pot of the straight world are NOT our rules
and never HAVE been. As Microdisney once
sang, "There's nothing wrong with the young would-be rich
that a head full of lead would not cure".
This issue written by Mark Ritchie avec la participation
de Gary Simmons. Please visit GEOCITIES.COM/HIROSHIMAYEAH -
even though the internet is OVER.


TRYING, LOOKING, WAITING
My life is meaningless
but so are these walls,
these tiles,
this toilet paper on which I write.
Trying to be Herbert Huncke,
trying to feel something,
anything
other than hatred,
fear,
shame,
bitterness,
sorrow,
a lack of self.
Trying, like Toulouse-Lautrec,
to depict the true and not the ideal,
as skies darken,
cities fall,
world leaders are murdered.
Looking for answers,
reasons,
waiting for a reverie
that never comes.

WAITING ROOM
What are we waiting for?
Amber summertimes of buzzing grass and goldfish skies?
Careers instead of jobs?
There rather than here?
Electric light instead of candle flame?
What exactly are we waiting to DO,
to feel,
to BE?
Are we waiting simply to fill the emptiness?
Because that�s all there is:
Emptiness.
The emptiness of souls,
hearts,
worlds.
The emptiness of something buried or burnt,
of coffins, newborns,
fading dreamers.
Soil.
Decay.
Smoke.
Air.

EXPLANATION
It isn�t arrogance but desperation
that causes me to feel superior
to the mindless, munching herd.
When not emboldened by alcohol,
I can�t even look them in the eye,
these sheep, these insects.
I lie in bed and feel like my whole life
is collapsing in on itself,
like my brain is a weak pane of glass
about to be shattered by a gale force wind.
Think of something nice, you idiot.
But there isn�t anything nice.
It�s all bad, bleak, burning.
So, when the new dawn�s miracle arrives,
cold and beautiful,
I don�t feel arrogant,
just desperate.
Desperate and thankful
that I�m not like THEM.

MORNING COFFEE THOUGHTS
The peaceful lull, the frothy calm
never lasts long,
not when there are nearby dumbos jabbering,
telling their kids to
"Sit down! Shut up! BEHAVE!
Stop embarrassing me!"
I want to say,
"You're embarrassing YOURSELF.
Why don't you hack off your useless spunk sack,
glue shut your disease-ridden HOLE
and, most of all,
DON'T sit ANYWHERE near ME."
Idiots shouldn't breed.

IN THE EVENT OF MY DEPARTURE
If ever I don�t reply to your letters
or answer your calls
then maybe I�ve finally done it.
Finally given up on everything and everyone,
become a character in a Richmond Fontaine song,
drifting, dying,
looking for some faraway luminous world.
Maybe I�ve become David Banner or Man in a Suitcase.
Maybe you�ll see me in the background of a TV show
from the �60s or �70s,
wearing flares and trying to suppress a smirk
because I know that it�s all a joke,
all a game �
our worries, our world,
the drinks we drink, the people we love.
It�s all a shadow, a trick of the light,
a beauty and sorrow known only to God.
So, if ever I don�t answer your letters or calls,
kindly meditate on all of that.
And smile.

ONE MORE EX IN MY ALPHABET
Can�t say I blame them,
but people have cast me aside a few times,
with �You get too drunk�,
�You make me feel bad�
or no explanation/reason at all.
It�s true that people DO grow apart,
grow older.
Some people even grow UP
as they grow into jobs,
children and responsibilities,
leaving the rest of us behind,
adrift in panic
and stillborn winters.
All these old photos;
doorways into a non-existent world.
Those smiles cold,
those feelings cold,
those clothes given to charity
or eaten away by moths.
But, having said all of that,
where ARE you, Si�n?
Where ARE you, Paul?
What are you doing?
And why don�t you want to do it with me?

13.7 BILLION YEARS OF HELL
Selected Dispatches from an Unwilling Player of God�s Little Game
By Gary Simmons

Got home at 5am! Went to 12 Bar Club in Denmark Street and saw three GREAT bands for free! One did just Ramones covers and I went MAD! Had booze bought for me by the last band�s manager! Oh, how we hugged!
*
Was thinking non-stop about that kid who starts with us and thought, "Ah-hah! I shall give Crime Stoppers a try!" So� I phone them. I lie that HE had a knife and was waving it about, not ME! The woman was USELESS! There is nothing they can do unless I give them his name and/or address!!!! Oh yeah, I'm sure he'll give me THAT!! God! OR I should dial 999 when it happens! I said, "The cops would take 20 minutes to arrive and by then it'll all be over!" They won't take no for an answer� it's like talking to the fuckin' Norwich Union "Customer Service" cunts! So, after all my years of hearing about this Crime Stoppers malarkey, I try it and it's as useful as thee olde porky chop at a Jewish wedding! I'm sure I'm dreaming this whole life of mine up� it CANNOT be real, surely!? UN-BEE-FUCKIN'-LIEVE-ABLE!!
*
4.13pm: I�m going out NOW! Alan asked Moses to ask me if I could give him a hand, so I did labouring for beer. Was like being at Tower with the lads! Felt OK, bathed, got the urge and off I GO!
5.53pm: Camden and/or West End, who CARES? As long as I�M having a good time, the world can go to HELL! xxx
7.42pm: Camden WELL dull. Now I go West End, Fox and shit. �Lookin� for some aktion, RIGHT NOW!� Whitehouse. Had a half in Dev, �1.45!
8.13pm: Fox, sitting at the bar with a Stella at �2.95 but you�re a long time mummified.. I know coz I saw the Karloff film (3700 years!) It�s warm and busy and rocky so why look elsewhere? I don�t CARE!
8.57pm: On tube homo coz all my energy�s gone and I feel a little sick. Put my Stella into my cider bottle as I don�t like to waste �3. I want my BED.
6.46am: Can�t kip. While going through bins, a Frog couple gave me SUSHI and a posh fruit bar!
1.14pm: Won �10 on Lotto so, off to Camden I GO!
*
I'm SICK! The food from Stab-all's market bins was ENDLESS, so I stuffed my face till I could stuff it no more. Then I raided the Charring Cross Road bins for dessert� = why I'm SICK? Plus the sharing bottles with all manor of infected SCUM. Ebola, AIDS, Hepatitus-C, Berry-berry, Scabies... I'm a SICK fuck.

GEROGARY�S PLAYLIST WON�T BE IN TODAY, HIS PLAYLIST IS UNWELL, HIS PLAYLIST HAS SPENT ITS WHOLE LIFE TURNING IT TO HELL, GEROGARY�S PLAYLIST WON�T BE IN TODAY OR AT ANY OTHER TIME, ITS ILLNESS REALLY IS SEVERE, ITS SYMPTOMS QUITE SUBLIME (WITH APOLOGIES TO TIMO)

MUSIC
LES SAVY FAV � INCHES (WICHITA)
I�d wanted to hear this lot for a while �cos they�re mates with the Hold Steady, so it was good to get this promo copy of their soon-to-be-reissued-2004-album-of-singles-and-B-sides for only �2.99 (maybe I ought to start writing to record companies asking for FREE shit but, y�know, who needs the chore/bore of THAT?) There are plenty of Edge-y, angular guitar riffs to excite fans of that sort of thing and the weird-looking singer sounds a bit like Thurston Moore getting a bit irate �cos his pension isn�t in or something. There�s nothing as immediately fab as you�d WANT or even EXPECT but, for someone who�s pretty much given up wanting or expecting such things, tracks like �Meet Me in the Dollar Bin� and �Hold on to Your Genre� are pleasant enough and might even �hit the spot� after a few listens� but HONESTLY, who�s got the TIME?!

VARIOUS � THE FEEDING OF THE 2,079, 211 � AN IDWAL FISHER COMPILATION OF WEST YORKSHIRE RESIDENTS (IDWAL FISHER) [email protected]
A TAPE! A tape with a really long title! And yet another Crass reference to add to the European Crass reference MOUNTAIN! Like �Idwal Fisher� zine, this is nicely produced, with a tasty thick paper insert. And the music? Well, it�s more NOISE, of course. Filthy Turd contribute two long tracks of clanky chant called �Silver� and �Steel� (that old TV show �Sapphire and Steel� was good, wasn�t it?) that go nowhere SLOWLY while Ashtray Navigations take us through the doors that conceal secret truths with their swirly �n� sci-fi �Francois� Magic Fridge�. Ocelocelot�s track is recorded live and it sounds like someone doing the hoovering in a drafty church hall until about seven people burst into applause at the end. Mutant Ape serve up some autopsy chic that would make Dr. G�nther von Creepy-Hat proud with the nightmarish �Hellish Flesh� and Astral Social Club�s �Live in Sheffield 16/8/07� is a synthy, how-the-fuck-did-we-get-trapped-in-this-aviary sorta thing. Best of all, though, is Smell & Quim�s �Dream Fucker �Rooh Mix��, which is short, sweet and gushes like a spunky waterfall of refreshingly understated earshred.

SUTCLIFFE J�GEND � TRANSGRESSION (DOGMA CHASE) reviewed by Gary Simmons
It�s pissing down, I�m a wreck and on starvation diet but I simply MUST order the Sutcliffe J�gend �Transgression� LP (limited to 500 �so act fast�) from Justin Cold Spring. Already overdrawn by �12.50, I now do a cheque for �18!! Fuck it, it�s dole-day on Saturday and� I WANT IT! See ya on the other side of an �18 cheque then. (Eh??)
2 DAYS LEE-AY-TARS� I�m only up coz the friendly postie a�knocked (well, RANG actually)� it was my SJ LP!!! This must be the FASTEST order/delivery EVER!! And it looks like Justin trusts me soooo much he don�t wait for my cheque to clear! The post is great, the post is coo-ul, the post LOVES you!! And you should SEE this album. Mine is #297/500 and it�s a piece of fuckin� ART!!
A NEXT DAY� SICK of being SICK! I STINK from a week of no bath/no hair. STS-121 Atlantis FLT29 COF (Columbus Orbital Facility) delayed until 2nd January 2008. SJ�s �Transgression� LP plays. I�m gonna put it on tape� just as soon as the recording levels are sorted. It�s GREAT! I�m still eating like a cunt, despite my AIDS. I�ll end up like Pete Shelley if I�m not a�careful. Met him at Tower. He signed my LPs AND a bootleg! Said �I�ve got a brother called Gary�. WOO!!

UNIT � ROCK IN OPPOSITION - PHASE ONE (DNA) www.unit-united.co.uk
Here�s a CD from 2005 by a vast army of people playing flutes, guitars, saxes, pianos and things of that nature (one of whom is the guy who used to be in The Apostles). There�s a dizzying array of styles, some of which work better than others, and UNIT come across as a kind of political version of Belle and Sebastian or perhaps an indie-rock Wu-Tang Clan. Among the worthy targets of abuse (capitalism, Bush, Blair, McDonalds, etc), there are empowering words for Scottish and Chinese people living in England (and, as a Scot with Chinese relatives who used to regularly visit England, I can DEFINITELY relate to THAT) and lines like �The punk rock scene in the UK will only let you have your say if you�re straight, English and white�. However, �A Case History� - a folk song rendered in a DREADFUL approximation of a Scottish accent which I thought was a JOKE upon first hearing � is a bit confusing; I must�ve missed the �slums� when I was last in the leafy, posh Glasgow suburb of Bearsden. Also, one song contains a rather baffling attack on �Idwal Fisher� zine but, as I�m not aware of all the details behind it, I won�t pass comment or judgement. Some of the messages UNIT are trying to get across are a bit TOO heavy-handed for anyone more interested in MUSIC than politics but that�s no doubt more MY fault than THEIRS. I just wanna ROCK, y�know? There�s still some interesting songs on this CD and the zine that comes with it contains some fascinating manifestos and diatribes. Time to dust down those old Apostles 7inches, perhaps? Er, maybe not, because UNIT ALSO helpfully inform us that �Punk is dead � deal with it!� Oh well, then.

NEIL YOUNG � CHROME DREAMS II (REPRISE)
Slept okay despite the Asian family and their 1.30am bathroom activities. Woke at 9-ish and ate the remains of a veggie sausage roll and a Lion bar. It was dull and dark. Again. January SUCKS. Rob texted to say he won�t be able to make it up for the AMC gig. Paid a couple of cheques into the bank, went into Oran Mor for my morning dump. Posted Andrew�s letter with a weird James Bond stamp. Got a brand new Murakami book in a charity shop which was �donated by a manufacturer or retailer�. Got SOAKED walking into town. Had a coffee in the Henglers Circus then bought the Replacements book from Waterstones. I recognised one of their assistants from somewhere. The Horseshoe, maybe? Went to Monorail for 12.30 where I�d arranged to meet Grant. He gave me a CD-R of this new-ish Neil Young album � which is brilliant, of course, especially the epic �Ordinary People� with its 1970s soft-porn saxophone breaks � and I gave him a zine. We looked at records then walked back to his office in the rain. He went back to work and I went to the Counting House and had a veggie burger with chips and a pint of Abbot ale. Read a Metro and dried off. Then I went to the John Moore and had a funny-tasting pint and then a NORMAL-tasting pint in the Auctioneers. Jamie rang. He�s had a baby girl! Went to the �Shoe next, to stand in the usual spot that I stand in when I�m alone. Had two pints and watched all the �action� and all the regulars, including Drunken Eyes. Went to a BUSY Failte next and had three pints of Guinness. Was only going to have two but I thought the barmaid said to me �Enjoy it, it�s your last,� when she served me my second pint. It got me so wound-up that I HAD to try and get served again and it was actually her who served me, so I suppose I was just being paranoid. Or WAS I? Then I went to Nico�s for a �1.50 Guinness and wrote some SHIT. Got some chips and was back at 9pm, just in time for �Never Mind the Buzzcocks�. When I went to the bathroom, the light was flickering on and off, like in some Kafka novel or David Lynch film. It made me laugh more than the new BBC2 comedy about a guy going to Alcoholics Anonymous. Yeah, that�s a RIGHT fuckin� LAUGH.

BILL FAY � BILL FAY (ECLECTIC DISCS)
On the surface, this sounds like your average late-1960s English beat-group type geezer gone solo with an expensive recording budget complete with string section. But bizarre lyrics about �chickens laughing in black dustbins�, watering cans and budgerigars committing suicide make for lots of laugh-out-loud, can�t-quite-believe-your-ears moments and prompt further investigation (what DID we all do before Google, boys and girls?) Turns out Bill is WELL obscure, a bit mad and much beloved of Julian Cope, who says that this isn�t even his best album (he only made two or three). According to Copey, that accolade belongs to 1971�s �Time of the Last Persecution�, which I�d very much like to acquaint myself with one of these dismal days.

MAX MILLER � THE CHEEKY CHAPPIE AT HIS BEST (SOUND WAVES)
Not trying to be wacky by reviewing this, someone actually sent me it for some reason. Used to convince myself that I LOVED all this old music hall SHIT when I was a teenage Smiths fan. I�d draw the curtains on the sun, brew up some tea, watch grim black and white films and maybe stick on a George Formby record if I was feeling REALLY �out there�. All I can say is, if THIS is Max Miller �at his best�, I�d hate to hear his DODGY material. Absolutely fucking ABYSMAL.

RUDIMENTARY PENI � CACOPHONY/POPE ADRIAN 37TH PSYCHRISTIATRIC (OUTER HIMALAYAN)
Here�s some punky goodness from the vaults. Four years on from their debut album (see review in last issue), the Peni regrouped to record �Cacophony�, a 30-tracker which incorporates elements of death metal, anarcho-punk and classic power-trio thrash. Although the overall production is much better than on their earlier material, there are a bit TOO many moments of spoken-word silliness to really allow the listener to engage with the actual songs. It�s also all over the place stylistically: Do they want to be an English version of punk �comedy� acts like Screeching Weasel/NOFX or is singer/guitarist/HP Lovecraft obsessive Nick Blinko TRULY off his rocker? On balance, I think it�s probably the latter. More evidence of this can be found on the rawer-sounding �Pope Adrian 37th Psychristiatric� (released in 1995) with its accompanying booklet of ghoulish artwork and disjointed lyrics about madness and anti-psychotic drugs. There�s a short, looped vocal sample that plays at varying volumes, throughout the ENTIRE album which becomes as annoying (maddening, even. Is that the intention?) as the repetitive nature of many of the songs.

DRIVE-BY TRUCKERS � BRIGHTER THAN CREATION�S DARK (NEW WEST)
They may have cancelled their European tour and parted company with Jason Isbell, but HOW could I possibly hold it against the Drive-By Truckers, one of America�s finest bands? This is the first of their albums where Isbell�s ex-missus Shonna Tucker gets a chance to showcase some of her OWN fine songs, which are a welcome addition to the bulk of material written by Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley. She�s the custodian of some dusty vocal chords and her �I�m Sorry Huston� is especially lovely. This is the mellowest DBT album yet, with pedal and lap steel bleeding all over many of the tracks alongside the swelling organ of Spooner Oldham. Brand new classics abound: �The Righteous Path�, �Perfect Timing�, �Daddy Needs a Drink�, �Checkout Time in Vegas�, etc and blah. Hope they reschedule their Glasgow show before this writer�s CUNT flatmates drive him to commit acts of violence eventually culminating in his own incarceration and/or death. Happy new year, y�all!!

BOOKS
HARUKI MURAKAMI � HARD-BOILED WONDERLAND AND THE END OF THE WORLD (VINTAGE)
�I have a thing about losers. Flaws in oneself open you up to others with flaws�. It�s lines like that and totally ludicrous, yet somehow believable, plots about talking cats and alternate dimensions that make me LOVE Haruki Murakami�s books SO much. That said, this one takes a while to get started but, once it does, it�s as madly addictive as ever. Many of his usual themes are present and correct: heroes with a penchant for beer and whiskey, strange and sexy women, people being separated from their shadows, etc. Trying to describe Murakami�s books to someone who�s never read them is pretty difficult, though the back-cover blurb of �science fiction, detective story and post-modern manifesto� is fairly accurate but STILL comes nowhere near. A brilliant writer, a fabulous novel. Read him NOW!

FRANK BANGAY � NAKED SONGS AND RHYTHMS OF HOPE (FORREAL EDITIONS)
This is �an illustrated collection of poems from 1974 to 1999� from �a survivor of the psychiatric system� so there are plenty drawings of trees and references to blooming flowers and sunlight and all that jazz. I suppose most people who write/draw/paint do so both out of a need to express themselves and as an outlet for personal anguish. Unless they happen to be a cunt like Jeffrey Archer, of course, in which case they do it simply to make as much dosh as possible. There�s some good stuff here - �Tonight Faith Won�, �That Place on the Hill� and �Glimmers of Light� to name but a few - which manages to shine with a hard-won resilience without sounding preachy or hackneyed (something which, I�m afraid to say, a lot of �therapy� poetry often is). Then there�s a funny �Fairy Tale� concerning Winnie the Pooh fighting the evils of �scumbag psychiatrists�. I also like how the book is printed in different fonts, giving it the feel of a personal journal written over many years, even if one or two of those fonts are not so easy on the eye.  

JIM WALSH � THE REPLACEMENTS: ALL OVER BUT THE SHOUTING � AN ORAL HISTORY (VOYAGEUR)
Like a lot of truly great, truly screwed-up people, the Replacements did everything they could to sabotage their own success. They�d get fall-down-drunk before gigs and play nothing but sloppy covers of songs like �Hello Dolly�, make unwatchable promo videos and throw their own master tapes into rivers. Oh, and they�d also record gorgeous songs like �Unsatisfied�, �Here Comes a Regular� and �Sadly Beautiful� as well as life-affirming thrillers like �I Will Dare�, �Left of the Dial� and �Merry Go Round�. In short, the Replacements were TOTAL fucking HEROES. This isn�t a conventional biography as such, more a rag-bag of personal recollections from music biz types, families, friends and fans. It�s fun to hear about the rivalry between the �Mats and that OTHER great Minneapolis alt. rock powerhouse, H�sker D�, but the main thing you get from reading this book is just HOW MUCH the Replacements meant - and continue to mean - to so many people; Paul Westerberg�s songs seeming to articulate all the confusion, trauma and sheer brazen JOY of being a young adult (of ANY age). For my own part, unexpectedly meeting �Mats bassist Tommy Stinson at a gig in Glasgow in 2004 was one of the highpoints of my life so far, and I don�t think I�d feel the same about meeting many OTHER fame-kissed bass-players.

39
He put all his possessions in plastic bags, took them down to the river and threw them in. Then he went to the bank and cancelled his direct debits. The housing-benefit people would still pay �240 into his account every four weeks regardless. Those idiots keep paying you forever until you tell them not to, he thought, and any concerns he may have had in the past about fraud were now WELL out of the window. This way, the money would go into HIS pocket instead of a landlord�s.
He had decided to give up.
It was strange that it happened just a few weeks before he turned forty. He�d read articles in the paper about the male mid-life crisis but didn�t believe any of it. He�d always been a worrisome, angsty person from childhood through teenage years, right into so-called adulthood. Sailing through life with no trouble simply wasn�t his way. Every tiny problem he encountered seemed insurmountable, impossible to solve. He was extremely good at asserting authority over inanimate objects - faulty toasters and kettles were no match for him - but, in every other aspect of his life, he felt a failure. Sucked into an orbit of soul-destroying jobs and unable to stand up for himself with bosses or even other colleagues, he always found himself being given the most menial tasks imaginable. That�s why, sooner or later, he would always leave, usually getting a doctor to sign him off with �stress-related illness�, �nervous exhaustion� and things of that nature. Now he hadn�t worked in months and the mere thought of getting back on the merry-go-round of employment again was so terrifying, that something inside him snapped. It had been a long time coming.
Once his business at the bank had been concluded, he got in his car and started driving, without any clear destination in mind. As the city disappeared behind him, his mind slowly started to clear and the ever-present knot in his stomach began to ease off a little. He even found himself enjoying the scenery and the pleasantly warm spring weather.
After being on the road for a couple of hours, he decided to stop off in a picturesque little town for a drink and perhaps a bite to eat. He pulled into the car park of a pub called the 39 Steps (he allowed himself a wry chuckle at the coincidence of the name) next to which stood a magnificent bronze statue of some long-dead local dignitary with a traffic cone planted jauntily on its head.
Everyone inside the pub was watching a televised football match, even the barmaid. After ordering a pint of lager and sitting down in the only available seat - directly beneath the gigantic TV screen - he started to feel self-conscious, even though no one seemed to be paying him any attention, their gazes fixed on the action unfolding above his head. He couldn�t understand why they were getting SO excited. Didn�t they KNOW it was all pointless? It was as if nobody had told them. Nobody had told them that it didn�t MATTER which team won or lost, what clothes they wore or how high their blood pressure was, that human beings were merely particles floating through a dark and unknowable universe. Nobody had told them that their whole lives were just long, agonising, futile treks to the grave.
As he sipped his drink, it played on his mind more and more. Why were these people wasting their lives with such trivial GARBAGE? Watching their vacant expressions almost made him feel physically sick. Without even realising it, he found himself suddenly up on his feet and wading into the middle of a large group of male and female students.
�It�s all pointless,� he was saying to no one in particular. �A waste of time. Don�t you see? DON�T YOU SEE?�
The ones who weren�t totally ignoring him were shooting him annoyed looks and then, as he continued his monologue, someone said, �Look, mate, if you don�t like it, why don�t you just PISS OFF?�
�Yeah,� another voice piped in, �and, while you�re at it, why don�t you suck my beefy rattler?�
Everyone laughed.
He suddenly felt light-headed, disorientated, even though he�d only had a few sips of lager. The faces surrounding him seemed to be melting away and their boozy chatter began to blur into one giant mass of buzzing incoherence. It was a struggle to reach the door as the crowd seemed to have swelled incrementally, as if it were now a single organism with the sole purpose of ensnaring him, forever.
Once outside, he gulped in the air greedily and tried to calm down. Laughter spilled out of the pub and then a huge cheer went up. Someone must have scored a goal, he thought. Great.
After a few minutes had passed, and just as he was about to get back into his car, the barmaid appeared behind him and lit up a cigarette.
�You alright, love?� she asked.
�Yeah. Feeling a bit funny, that�s all. Needed some fresh air.�
�Do you live round here?�
�No, I�m just passing through.�
�Where you going?�
He let out a laugh that was borne more out of desperation than amusement.
�Nowhere, really. I�m not going anywhere.�
They stood silently for a while and then she tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the road and popped a Polo Mint in her mouth.
�Want one?� she asked.
�No, thanks.�
�I�d better get back inside, I suppose. Take care of yourself.�
�You too,� he replied.
Halfway through the pub door and almost as an afterthought, she turned back to him and asked, �What�s your name?�
�My name? Oh, it doesn�t matter, really.�
And it didn�t.
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