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43 Waiting for Sleep For half an hour every night, I practice dying, lying there while my life flashes by in bits and sharp shards—sins of speech, sins of silence, sins of action or inaction—until the surrounding darkness penetrates and I realize what I have done that was even worse and managed to repress, as one must do, in order to keep going. But these monstrosities lurk and emerge in dreams. I know they are dreams; what I cannot determine is whether I am asleep or dead. How can anyone tell the difference until a gray dawn arrives that does not bring a pardon but only a stay for which I ought to be thankful? ...

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