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3 Margin of Error is the land I live in. Landscape of uncertainty I can tolerate. It’s right brain, not left, Left Bank, not West Bank. Land of doubt not dogma. It’s The Flying Wallendas with a net. Those who fall in love again. Place where slim to nil was once fat chance. Give me elbowroom, latitude and leeway—the bungee, not the noose. Pollock’s drips, not Vermeer’s precision— Ella’s scat, and Sagan’s stars. Perhaps, perchance—the stuff of pinches, dashes, smidges—written in sand not stone. The crossword done in pencil, the white on the page—the forecaster who gets it wrong—the horoscope that gets it right. It isn’t knowledge of the speed of light, but intuition of the weight of darkness. Three out of five, and Saturn V—the guy who asks, What are the chances you’d marry me? And to the reply of one in a million says, Okay. So there’s hope. ...

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