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Limbo
- Northwestern University Press
- Chapter
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30 Limbo Because there is nothing there is that is not worth dying for, we wait until our bodies take on the stubborn musculature of sculpture, feel from where form, like everything fixed, gives off a kind of grief. So many malingerers! What faith would suffer us? All night we sleep the sleep of blindness: bright and isolate, waiting to wake from dreams that seem no more than a cold draft—what happens—when another soul passes. Even the gods were like goods we could not take with us: sentimental, sad— they begged us. We left them for others. ...