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But it is you I want now, here in the middle of this Uprising, with the streets yellow and threatening, short, ugly lances with fur at the throat and inexplicable shell money lying in the grass. It is when I am with you that I am happiest, and it is for you that I am making this hollow-core door table with black, wrought-iron legs. I held Sylvia by her bear claw necklace. “Call off your braves,” I said. “We have many years left to live.” There was a sort of muck running in the gutters, yellowish, filthy stream suggesting excrement, or nervousness, a city that does not know what it had done to deserve baldness, errors, infidelity. “With luck you will survive until matins,” Sylvia said. She ran off down the Rue Chester Nimitz, uttering shrill cries.

Donald Barthelme, The Indian Uprising. (via ohzeitgeist)

I cannot escape this.

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Off to Holy Cross Monastery

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