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midnight dermatology clinic

Some call this December. And the crowds never fail to refill themselves. I have a book and my own silence; everyone else has a cell phone and everyone else.

I don't care about faith. I want to know that there is someplace for me to get to. And I half-act as if there is. And I half-sleep as if there's not.

And outside there is nothing but darkness and the light of office towers guiding me into the weekend, runway lights for planes that never take off.

Isolation has slicked my hands. I can't catch the faces. I sit with my manuscript in an empty field. Someday someone will open a liquor store on the moon. I wait patiently for that day with a suitcase and a ladder.

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