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January 24, 2008
I write tonight in continuation of all things that have gone before. I write behind that galloping ahead of me, heavy breaths snorting over the bridle. I write in search of the poetry that slipped from my hands, the newly-sharpened blades whisking perfectly parallel cuts across my fingers and palms.

The fists crowded below waving slips of paper are carrying shouts from the floor. What am I bid? A bird! someone cries. Someone else bids a fish and an elephant, a Korean bride. I am bid a warehouse of plastic and a labor union. I wait for the right bid.