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On The Way To Work, DrivingA fascist with a mustache informs his listeners of riots in rural Canada. A
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secret hope that defined your childhood is remembered with assaulting force.
A thought of dust opens an invitation to deeper, blacker holes.
This is the meaning of lost: smiles and laughs during funerals, sighs during
weddings. Rumors, heresies, whims, I know, mean so little. You can't help
but listen to the sounds of nothing enveloping your existence. Everyone hears,
but the hearing has its deeply terrible price. If someone asks what you had for
dinner the day before yesterday, you wouldn't know and would struggle to think
of an acceptable answer.
All along roads and parking lots, other cars and trucks and vans take on an air
of unreality. Time means as much as the history of a country you've never heard
of but always thought about visiting. Revolutionaries and sociologists and malicious
anthropologists will stumble, view the writing on your future grave, and think about
what you've never wanted to know in lif