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Coming is the body's way of weeping, after a series of shocks is suffered, after the thrust of things, the gist of things, becomes apparent: the bolt is felt completely swollen in vicinity to wrench, the skid is clearlyheaded toward an all-out insult, and the senses one by one abandon all their stations— into smaller hours and thinner minutes, seconds split—till POW— you had it, had it coming, and it heaved, whose participle wasn't heaven. That was that. And when you got some senses back, you asked yourself, is this a dignified being's way of being born? What a thought somebody had! (or some no-body) out of the breathless blue, making us double up like this, half gifted and half robbed. "Rise up to me," the spirit laughed. "I'm coming, I'm coming," the body sobbed. V ...

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