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Tour Book of Northeastern States for M. D. To pass nothing but low shrub and pasture, traveling a route traced in yellow by a girl who said, helpfully, this way. There is no religion. The pines are neither sickly nor ecstatic; there is nothing beyond what the roadside offers, miles ticked out in green. Fire Island is not filled with men, one of them so sick with grief he fucks one lover after another, trying to die. If you want to rest, there are rest stops. There are neat paragraphs of beach—you can go there the way I wanted to get hit by a car when my friend died, not thinking I deserved pain, but to hurt myself in rage, so the body could howl with all of itself. The tour book is not full of promise, just motels, clean campsites, paths to the dunes. Someone else is driving and throws a blanket back over you, in the cold evening air. Sleep pulls you down; it is a sweet place the body is going. 27 ...

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