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Immigration stories of Calais

I remember.
I try to remember how it all started.
Them. The very first I saw was them.
Mine.
I loved them. They have loved me too, maybe in their own way.
I want to believe that. I have to.
Then something broke. First an explosion, then a scream and after a suffering.
Therefore the plural killed the exception and the others came: explosions, screams and sufferings.
That was the time I began to hate them. The very first that I saw.
Mine.

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