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Impressionist I wasn't getting anywhere. What good was the book of matches, watch of wheels, defective mechanisms of my sex? Where was the most of myself I meant to make? Mistress of the minded Q, the pointed I, I knew discretion comes to order and the million likenesses add up to one distinction (cells of color, on a riverbank, where the French girl in the light blue dress remembers someone gone). My mechanic lights a cigarette. I'm at his desk, revising the bill. I take a zero out, I move a dot: this makes all the difference. He wants to sell me speed: I need it like a hole in the head (my head is overweight). I mean the world to him. He'll fix my Comet, I will feed his Milky Way machine. I mean it matters, mud or moon, what grounds we have for understanding. Now I'm getting somewhere, driving it home. The roadside leaves 133 I 2 are orange, yellow, every kind of down. A dust of light is in the drawing room, a dust of flowers in the living room, and in the bedroom, dust has almost filled the eyecup of the dead impressionist. 134 ...

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