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The sun is shining and pies, pancakes and buns are baked for bus drivers. Of course, runners are not baked. I go up the hill, the flock is sleeping, a used, but unshakable sheepskin coat lies on the side of the road. It smells of gas and chemicals, production works like clockwork. Somewhere, stronger dogs are humming. At the pipes, the gangsters deal with each other.
