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29 The Fall Perhaps the oblivion of physical passion is practice for the future and grace of nothingness. One forgets how hard it is to bear the hazy gentleness of the daily routine, the in-between life, even within the glass globe of that museum of a Garden. What a high-wire potion it is to let oneself play the conductor, the body a baton; to eye the first chair and mime the solo. They could hardly stop themselves, that small pandemonium of effort to hit the high note. ...

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