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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⠀⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛⠿⣶⡄
⠀⠀⠀⠄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⠄⠀⠠⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢹⣿⡆
⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠄⠀⠀⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⡇
⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⢦⣤⣴⣾⡿⠋
⠀⠀⠀⣷⣤⣤⣼⣿⢰⣄⠀⠀⣠⡆⠀⠁
⠀⠀⠀⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⠀⠉⠉⠁⡇
⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⣤⣤⣤⣇
⠀⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠿⠿⠻⠿⣿⠇
⢠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⢳
⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢾
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢧
⢹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸
⠀⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼
⢀⣴⣿⠿⠛⠿⣿⠧⢄⠀⠀⠀⢀⡼
⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢣⠀⢻
⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⢸
⢻⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡴⠁⡠⠁
⠀⠹⣷⡀⢀⡤⠖⠉⣀⠔⠁
⠀⢀⣿⣿⢁⡤⠖⠉
⠀⠧⢼⣿
⡎⢸ ⠉⠐⠢⢌⠑⢄ ⡸ ⡆ ⠣⠱⡀
⡇⢸ ⣀⠗ ⠉⠉⠁ ⠙⠢⠤⡀⢃⢱
⡇⠘⣄⢀⠔⠉ ⠈⠁⠘⡄
⢇ ⠁ ⠘⡄
⢸ ⢀⣀⣀⡀ ⢀⣀⣀⡀ ⢣
⡸ ⢴⣾⡿⠿⠽⠇ ⠘⠛⠛⠛ ⠈⢄
⠰⡁ ⢠⠒⠢⡀⠈⠒⠊ ❤ ⡠⢄ ⡘
⠱⣀ ⢀⠜ ⠇ ⢀⠔⠁ ⡏
⠑⠤⢄⣀⠔⠁ ⡜ ⠊⠁ ⢀⠜
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.”
– Altiera Cunningham, Cyberpunk 2077
― Uncle Kamata