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9 Hour Glass Above the cincture (or is it a sphincter?) the narrow now of the enormous glass, the future bleeds from what remains of the reservoir. Like sundials on cloudy days or after dark, these devices are useless unless we look up or down. What we see is the steady stream of g r a n u l e s on the way down. Not sand, which would be neutral and easy, but all the pills, the tablets, caplets and capsules, that measure out our days. The runoff below, whatever its size, is irrelevant. Our worry is above: even if we could who would dare look? ...

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