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Part IV This Hate It is like a fitting room only with eight or nine mirrors instead of three— only, no door. But you see: no ceiling. They never do. I love them, my mother, my daughter. Both. I do, and I can write it out and seal it but it hurts, the mirrors closing in. Now: the stamp. I have to do this very carefully, looking up; I feel, you see, the fontanel’s gentle beat at closing. Carefully now—the shine is blinding— I have to jump and drop it out, over. Now I need a skin. Or maybe this fogging up transparency is it. Is it? It feels like yours, more or less; only for the face. This Minute The videotape runs silent, but life-size. A bed. A woman and a man. A woman 118 door in the mountain ...

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