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I am aged by Laundromats and the black windows of Sunday night storefronts. I wander out to the empty loading bays of industrial parks to better-tune my radio. A clipboard dangles from a long, rusted chain of Heaven. I read names of those who are no longer here or who merely died in the maze of telephone wires. All I have left is the emptiness of my hands. I stare hard at the muddy brown clouds playing tag at night. I inhale them. Deeply. Each breath builds a brighter, greyer lung. I cling to the emptiness between my hands. Why can't I be as thoughtless and as happy as those first rays of light that will soon fall upon my part of the world?

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