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20 lamentationS If only my soul were a messy garage outsde the house I have always wanted. Then I would be a ple of fenders, old tres and engne parts, carburetors on shelves, wrenches everywhere, buckets of drty ol, some skeleton of a car n the mddle wth old lawnmowers. It would be a tnker’s joy, you n the corner there, sttng besde me, the two of us not qute finshed, not joned wth wres that pull the current around, make the lghts go. I could go over to you, shuffle over, step n puddles of grease and grme, follow the squeak of your voce lke the up and down of old sprngs. Puttng your parts wth my parts, we look lke the workng thng that we should be. Sputterng, we come to lfe, and ths stumblng mechanc we have been for so long falls nto a ple of bolts, wres, nuts, panels, and grease. He sleeps whle you and I resurrect hm whole and full. Then we de agan, fall back nto the ncompleteness. Back and forth ths goes, untl n one realzaton a brand-new car rolls out of the garage. We st n t, me drvng, adjustng the rado, wth a lcense plate sayng “Father and Son.” ...

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