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3 Day on Which One Cycle Ends and One Begins All the fireworkers on the third floor couldn’t put back together again your head, your ethereal car. That was the essence of water, mulling you over and over and drifting off thoughtlessly, then a century passes and a second ship makes a puppet show of the horizon for a very long time. Begging your pardon, the alcoholic simply didn’t drink enough before he got on and where did you think you were going watching the skirts of the water ballet like a dog in a painting the curtains never end, hanging at the edges of your vision like leotards the gods have outgrown—meaningless except that it was better, you thought, to have a wife and kids and storm off to scar all the islands in some sort of circle sleeping with a witch and then a saint and then a witch in the shape of a god. You’d bronze up your body so hard even the hydras, climbing up out of the Lethe and trying to block out the day, would wince when they hit you. Maybe you were never really lit at night. Anyway, you just couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t you. ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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