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46 Right This Way, This Way to My Heart Just tell me the truth, I kept insisting, as if this would guarantee solidity where I might blindly turn to put my foot, could parch the swamps or lay a plank across the precipice, even though the world is round and caught up in its own routine: humming counter-clockwise to itself and all the while engaged elliptically with other ones around the star. I know there is no substance to the sounds you make. (And yet you do make sounds; they might as well be true, as not.) There it is again, expectant, embedded, demanding, and so come one by one the little mutinies. Also, intermittently, the flashings clear and brief to beguile and confound me. ...

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