Yesterday, while walking in Central Park, a woman stood in front of me and told me in question form: "Frank?" I'm not much given to displays of communication, looked confused. "No, Frank ... I am Raul" I replied puzzled. "Frank," he repeated in a tone that could not be in question. I kept imagining silence as a kind of cowboy-style pygmy wild west. "I'm Frank," I repeated and went without saying more.
"The being of nothing is great." 
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