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20 airborne I said if the end of the world is coming, let it come now, so we can go together—then threw up into a plastic bag from bad calamari. So much unexpected pleasure—that rooftop restaurant, sun and cold beer after seven months of sky like cold cement, that string of lights, each bulb cased in a ruby teardrop, froth of green in the tops of trees, our specific unguarded presence— these particulars his theory ignores. To have a plane and fly it, to land gently on a grass strip between two burning brush piles, the Swan River rushing down its mossy flume to the dam. Those lost seagulls. A red kayak running the rapids. The hat he wore. All the while insisting it’s not the person but the feeling—roving, airborne as a disease, a spore. ...

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