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41 In a yard of hollow trees I could hear the echoes of smitten children. I could hear their birdsong imitation. I was wrapped up in a fraying blanket. I was holstering a bad revolver. I was adding cement to a pillow fort. It was hard to see with the money over my eyes. I had a spray can of paint and I was hot on the trail of a bushwhacking tractor. On my chest I wore a plastic star. I’d set up camp on the cattle grate. I was eulogizing a squirrel in a shoebox. I was being lowered down in a pine box. I was flying a balsawood airplane. My mission was to gather the fog that still hung between the rises in the meadow. No one could see me in the magnolia. I floated out on the silver water. I shimmied up a yellow rope. I did the snake dance for Saint Peter. In the side mud, I lost my sandals. I chose from a variety of cobweb dresses in a gigantic forest. It was okay with me to tend the fire inside the mountain forever. Or, I was ready to eat dessert, after dessert, after dessert. But I wanted to know how my friend Marc Kuykendall went. HELL IS FIRE HEAVEN IS CAKE ...

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