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59 Little Sadness I know the pain is inside me, that the sadness has not gone away forever, but where is it? Come here, my little sadness, I whisper down my esophagus. Oh, here he comes, the three-legged bugger, with mother’s turpentine eyes and fur the exact gray the afternoon sky was when Dad hurled the television out the third-story window. Here, my petite clump of misery, I mutter, hop onto my lap. Up. Up. Of course he can’t, but tries anyway, bashing his bony head against my kneecap, whimpering. Good, little sadness, good. ...

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