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52 When I’m Gone When I’m gone, I won’t be here anymore, if you can imagine that. I can. I can imagine being gone, and then being somewhere else, somewhere entirely different from this place, but with mist as at Dak To, only with softer greens and blues, and no small arms fire chatter in the untroubled trees, and no poison-tipped bamboo sticks. And when I’m gone, I would bequeath the space I had occupied to the dreamers, and to the disenfranchised, and to the lost singers of songs, so they might pitch their trash bag tents in peace and ease back into the darkness that I love, when I’m gone. ...

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