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The length of the days expands the less I drink. Funny thing, really. I used to think there never was enough time. Now I count the hours till sleep. When sleep presents itself, it doesn’t speed things along much. It sputters and stops, like a waterlogged outboard motor. There I find myself: red-eyed and seated in the boat and staring from the middle of a calm lake. I can’t see shore. It’s twilight, or maybe just before dawn. Rose- or yellow-tinged nighttime blue. Car sounds distantly, probably on a nearby highway, or Flatbush. It is very hot. I pull the rope again, but the motor just shimmies. Time passes. There’s slight rocking. Water on the tin hull of the dinghy. Eventually I close my eyes again, and the thing starts. Intermittently successful. I don’t know what is supposed to come at the end of this waiting.

Categories: Asides.

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