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3 I Say So Long to the Hedge Rider Hey, edge stepper carrying your bag of quicklime and larks, I thought you’d gone, hitched your sad self to some old words like hither and ell, but here you come tramping through the half-light of the forest like an idea that is only good on paper. So here we are at the crossroads— with each way so dismal, so embolismal, how will I ever find the curbstone, the term? Never mind. You are just the ghost of myself that I will soon be rid of— I am sending you away, stripped to your weeds, to your oh-dear in the hallway, to the series of unfortunate events that has left me in this darkness riding the bird cherry and the haw. ...

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