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49 Foyer Twice in your life you will breathe Caesar’s last breath sucked in whirring gold and glass revolving doors, the draft grazing these stone lions closing lips over teeth. Go up the steps and you know why you’re here: murals of John Singer Sargent’s flushed, draped, back-lit women turning faces toward the pan flute, to each other’s closed mouths, to the lemons growing green to white in the brushed leaves. This is a library. A sheet hangs down one wall. Taped-up signs read: In Repair, In Repair, In Repair. You are noticing carved gremlins or cupids, whatever they are, trapped at the ceiling, fat legs bicycling the air. ...

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