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I button my coat and step outside, leaving room between my gloves for a handshake.

Here, no one.

One of the street lamps standing at the edge of the lawn colors everything yellow except the night it won’t let you see: stars, moon, cadence, motion.

Si j’ai des rêves ills sont pour l’amour ou la mort, probably because dreams allow me the rare quality of being in two places at once.

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