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January 27, 2008
The night slides past my window like a subway train, stops in large tinted portraits, and gasses the doors open. Ghosts and replicas of the poet slide out holding the doors while others slide back in. The train leaves again while they find their seats and their handholds. The track rolls up behind the train as it leaves.

Oh, I am sipping life slowly, feeling it wash up against my teeth and slip beneath my tongue. I am swallowing life in small portions. I no longer want to get fat on it. I want to know it. That is all.