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January 26, 2008
The floor rises in a growl. A fight has broken out, and a man is thrown across a table. “One hour!” he shrieks. “Sold!” I demand, without thinking, because I know I have made a deal.

Only in the lawyer consummated paperwork the following morning I find I have sold my page for one hour of someone else’s time, a thing of no good to me. What else? If I am not bid my own life, my own thoughts and blood, then what can anyone offer me? Either it is or I am. I am much preferred to be it.