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John Is in the Next Room John is in the next room. The dead man I sit beside who keeps the house up until all hours. How late is that is a question. That he is still is to be expected and that he is still John is a surprise. At the edge of his lip I see a puddle of saliva tremble that would fall were he to move. It is too obvious to mention that moving is beyond him. And the thing will slip of its own generative mass with a viscosity that promises it will lengthen as it falls, suture a wet lip to a clean shirt. The glistening extension snaps. But before that my tongue is close enough to touch it. John is in the next room.  ...

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