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Location: Just entered plagued fashion building shelter in the parade district, and i hear the usual styled mumbling of the slowed records.. but its different this time.     Head out the door to the right in the storeroom to the bed in the back corner, theres a wind up 45rpm record player. 

A woman sings over jazz about one day waking up in a house on fire alone hearing sirens coming. HELP?  Im going to be up all the night fretting

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