Back on Yucca Avenue i stuck the Olds in the garage and poked at the mailbox. Nothing, as usual. I climbed the long flight of redwood steps and unlocked my door. Everything was the same. The room was stuffy and dull and impersonal as it always was. I opened a couple of windows and mixed a drink in the kitchen. I sat down on the couch and stared at the wall. Wherever i went, whatever i did, this was what i would come back to. A blank wall in a meaningless room in a meaningless house.
Raymond Chandler
Playback
1958
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Playback_(novel)
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