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56 Iran/Iraq Sensuous traffic paraded over the cobblestones. The horse was skeletal when we rode him. Right now I’m asleep with an Iranian princess in Aquamarine. There’s a hole in the map where the not me is at knife point.You think I’m kidding: my fascination with peeling her veils is absolutely unique— shallow breathing, the sensations stampeding and worthy of study.The whole history of men and women, if we knew them as individuals . . .Then why am I shy out-of-doors when my wallet’s gratuitous, a whisper in the theater?The streets are thin, as in anonymous.Whose laundry hangs from the line with a body on it, whose creeds—what, excite me?— like smoked meats in the marketplace? Then why not mention the milk factory bombed to oblivion, the same oblivion we draw from in the ashram? ...

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