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On same days, at night, when roads turn into blades, crossing at junctions into a Cambodian version of Russian roulette, when I shouldn´t steer any vehicle anymore, when I ride home on my loyal not scarless motorbike, only in my head visions of accidents taking place, real time, or just what will happen turning around the handlebars now, hearing the plastic cracking, metal clawing into the tarseal, my flesh skinned down to battered bones – and I drive faster to feel more comfortable.