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I wanted desperately to quote you something with chapter-and-verse accuracy but nothingness is what I draw from. There is no there there. The memory–my memory–is a snake oil salesman wearing the daftest of suits, promising to recall even that which never was. Chickenscratch on a train. Writing while traveling. I wish my most malicious words could be inserted into the child’s body to hunt down the bacteria, to unwind the spirochetes, to cleanse all that is too young to be unclean. I wish my most hopeful words could be inhaled be my wife and give her joy, relief. I take out the trash instead. I walk the dog. We walk to walk. No one is cured. Nothing has changed. We will do the same tomorrow.

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