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[32] A GL ASS OF ABSinthe after Degas At first we pass them, unstudied as a snapshot where marginal subjects have slipped in. A disenchanted pair off-center and off-level, lean like bags of flour into the singular pitch of a café’s genial keel; no ballast here except for the pool of milky licorice — a teetering glass of absinthe. So startling to see how everything was made to dovetail; how the zigzag of empty tables between us and the luckless couple traces a brooding loneliness, a composition so boldly calculated that we can hardly face its draughtsmanship. Powdered pigments molded into figures whose back sides blaze like butterflies caught in an ashen rain in mirrors propped behind them. the proprietor had thought the glass might brighten the place. But, there is no changing history or the reflections of our lives. ...

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