When I was a little girl, my father had a car with a roof window, and I liked to stick my face out of it to catch the breeze.
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We just catch the wind from inside the shell, as if to confirm our own form in a landscape passing by at high speed.
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It's too early for us to crawl out of the shell, but I'll just put my hand out of the small window.
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What I can do with this body I was born with.
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