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98 fOr nOw, rise Perhaps you still control it, perhaps already the choice is ceded. What difference? Either way, night is still night. No bird mimics, no wind relieves this desert where you’ve arrived. You’re through with astrologies and gypsy nonsense. Bring on a bitter end. You’ll conjure your despair once too often and stay there, just dumb enough to wonder when the ceiling fell, when the door slammed shut for good. Not yet. Hell, perhaps you can live like this forever. When sky lightens and the blade of moon is lost, that still means it’s morning. Better yet the Sabbath, best day for rising from self-destruction. Start rising. Clothe thyself in the robes and scarves of loathing required by your cockeyed church. Dry damp touch of dream from forehead. A commandment hammers there. Listen. Rise up. 99 Strap on cracked sandals. Your shame’s out where you left it. Wanderer, seek it out. Pretend, for now, this could happen any other way. ...

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