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Destination Perhaps we are going neither to Heaven nor to Hell but somewhere else like the foggy coast of Oregon in winter. Perhaps our inability to know what we are doing or to see what is around us is merely practicing for death, learning our lines before we go on stage where there will be nothing to do but wait for nothing and every afternoon when the light goes hard and nacreous before it fades entirely, we will stand in a long line for our only meal of the day, a soupy gelatinous something served from a kettle by a woman with fat arms and a mustache, and then go to bed, almost contented, on cots in a dank church basement, surrounded by the snores and farts and sighs of others of our sad kind. 18 ...

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