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Sunday, April 18, 2010
Eighty.
The fruit on the kitchen table,
turning brown, that you didn't buy
for yourself, and the orange towel
taken from the closet and hung
next to yours. You cannot bring yourself
to touch them.
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Eighty-four.
No. 1.
Eighty-three.
Eighty-two.
Eighty-one.
Eighty.
Seventy-nine. Faster, now.
Seventy-eight.
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