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 The Progress of Night In the late elegiac light, insects chide the frail contraption of the sky, its faulty system of pulleys and wires. Piteous stars circuit the stripped gears of galaxy as crickets keep grinding out twilight’s tinny, dwindling music. Again that pale immigrant blunders in to watch over the progress of night, to observe the grim magics we practice, all the oaths we take and make and utter. What comfort can we offer another traveler under this same unsteady scaffold? We’ll find no charm against calamity. Though the dark architecture of the heart is buttressed by sternum, girded by ribs, we build our lives from its very trembling. ...

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