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Here comes emptiness. Here comes hopelessness.

Here comes despair.

I am proud to report that I have accepted an offer to play records slowly and quietly in the dead hours of night at a radio station in the afterlife. I will watch over lost souls in the frozen food aisles of the supermarket. I will comfort dark shapes drifting through the foggy corridors of hospitals.

I got this way shivering by Dry Creek late at night. Digging through the soil for my comfort pills. My sister's voice like buried treasure somewhere in the dead neighborhoods where no one lives. Freeway signs sleepy and barely lit. Motel rooms rise out of the fog. So I can rest a while.

Just rest a long while.

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