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147 FEAST OF THE MISSING Sea is always tossing back a wreath of its water up the beach. Fish markets raise from their spread tables the smell body of blessing from the dead cooked; no one sees fragrance as the roll away of what was stone. Any give and take tide of the eat and the eaten thanks to propitiate any imbalance, any gluttony that would privilege death over life to keep just itself alive has to float on a wheel of returning self unrecognizable that comes the direction no one looks until he catches on ...

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