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NIGHT Its not a story if a story is a kind of blindfold and the words a set of eyes. There is every reason to be in this boat alone the familiar lines broken by oarlocks the creak and ancient fishermans swing gliding then resting the months behind me not like silver pavilions but just somewhere where we were a second ago swirling reflections of a dark green boat a young man inside it if I close my eyes I see it meI guess silhouettes watching calmly from the shore on which the world stands alive the restaurants spilling light down on the water crowds of people two glasses an elaborately misplaced streetlight not a sound. I can hear people outside my window. Four floors below everyone is going somewhere a new place crazyl easy and luminous Js Oyster Bar maybe bad stools and raucous shucking beautiful dirty shrieking Coughing. God the oceans of coughing. A green wave hits I turn over and fall asleep dead funny dead elaborately misplaced funny its dead oars plashing through stygian darkness not a sound. 44