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Across CHIP DAMERON Across the river is another version of your life, the smells sharper along the streets, the same heat somehow hotter, more humid, air filtered through bursts of words that open at first but soon close down, their metallic surfaces of sound a form of music rather than speech. A man drinking coffee in a corner café has been waiting, still waits, for you to open the door and say what you have often felt the need to say, however halting and inexact it may be. ♦ ♦ ♦ ...

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