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62 The Fault of Silence In the world of night the fault of silence falls on no one and suffering is the span of emptiness between each finger on a hand. There’s no web no net to catch each moment falling and not received by someone, a self saying: Here I am. Hence the sense of facelessness we have. Trains have windows, a lookout— over backyards, striped swing sets and meadows. The ticket taker walks softly up the aisle. When imagining a plant, the real plant curls its leaves and we go inside a large room filled with different stations. One is for shells scattered. Bears have been there. One is for children—how they need a place to be. One is for brooms and neatness. One is a sitting place with many exits. One is for terror. ...

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