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[50] i T ’ S n O S e C r e T People in this airport look miserable, fed up with the miracle of manned flight, the rusted sun, the gigantic tin cans wheeling across the tarmac. Someone’s child spreads her arms and circles through the terminal, a buzz escaping her thin lips as she veers past a handicapped woman escorted by a tall man in a blue vest. i wish i could tell the girl with pigtails and wings for arms that we’re all secretly waiting for the moment our bodies unbuckle from the ground and rise into blue; but i imagine that, like me, one day she will find her father gripping the armrest of the red sofa, eyes like white marbles cut in half, scotch melted into water on a coaster. ...

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