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Summary
There’s a disconnect, somehow (always is, nowadays). He’s become far too used to an outside view of himself, from the magazine covers and all the big screens. He’s put the miserable old portrait in a mile-long aisle of picture frames and still, it doesn’t change a thing; sometimes, he feels as if his countenance is some blotchy old letter that has been reread a hundred times over: no matter the envelope he slips it into; no matter the hair or the jacket, the words still say the same thing, a little red pointer in the middle of a tourist centre map: you are here.