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100 • ExiTS My ears are filled with the dead, voices truer than what speaks today: suicide melodies, overdose harmonies, bullet wound improvs. Robert Johnson was poisoned, Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison— all some form of suicide. What if it was me: the pills, the booze, the man on a ledge, crowd saying, Don’t do it. What am I willing To die for? What, am I willing to die? ...

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