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flask at sundown

Wind is re-routed in the land of pinched nerves. Everyone's trying to figure out how they are going to get to work in the morning and how they are going to get home at night. The politicans have re-scheduled sunrise and nightfall. My worst half sneaks away from my sleep and installs grassy knolls along every potential parade route. Somewhere between secret motel and the moon there is a secret tree house with a mattress on the floor, a high-powered rifle, and a brass bucket to hold the shooter's breath. I have a meeting late tonight with the Mayor in the shadow of City Hall. He may be drunk and vulnerable to suggestion. I will bring him bright news from my underground economy. There are catacombs of opportunity twisting beneath every existence you think you know. I bend beneath the figurative weight of narcotics on the blind side of reappropriated billboards. My crew flashes the death signal to freeway drivers blinded by perspiration. We will celebrate the end of the night in a rented banquet room at Denny's.

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