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It is 70 degrees in late November. Opening a window, you nearly know how certain days filter themselves through screen, chain saw, sun dust, games of chance. How certain as cliche certain days are. You make a bed. Sunlight runs in. The bed reconciles everything. You know how the far-off can surround you, how things swim here, thousands of miles inland, of their own accord, to find the unknown passage of your human ear. You know now how the times at times can lose their most acerbic edge, and your planned child and your grandmother rise as a sound and single sweetness in the aural shell you carry from amphibian history, into the present, the shore of rising, sinking treasure. Just don't blow it! History's not pleasure, merely; even now its sharks sharpen the future. You nearly know it. 117 ...

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