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At a certain point the things I used to do came back to me. This was when I’d stopped dulling the razor-glide of the passage of time, and I did not flinch when I became aware of it pressing. I let its edge slide along my seeing and breathing. It felt like hot weights on and within my chest, suddenly. I was out under the bridge, on the rocks, listening to the East River’s waters lap. And I remembered sitting on the lakeshore in Chicago, in Rogers Park, on the boulders, listening to the waves caress each other and the stones and break, and the inner music that noise would stir. For an instant I thought it was terrible, but in the next I knew it wasn’t.


Categories: Asides.

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