Like a held breath, I have a secret I want to keep. Part wants to explode out like spring, but I wait a little longer, wait a little longer.

Maybe you can guess: it's got to do with astro-geology and sweaty mornings and digitized pornography. Bigger than a breadbox, it fell down from a blue sky and knocked my head over my heels. People never understand what a beaten wife means when she says she loves him, they never understand that fate is determined to be cruel and confounding. You've got to just wait for it to pass.

(the only hard part is it stinks like stale whiskey breath and aches like a fast and shallow pulse)

One hand didn't move all night. The other remarked, "This is all real," between dreams. The pieces of the room waited. We all held our breath, captured soldiers would not tell a soul.

Someday a white old bone woman will sit in her rocking chair and recite the part she didn't get.

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