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2004-01-11 | 12:57 a.m.
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Sitting on a pristinely made bed with your hands resting on the scratchy, thinly quilted polyester spread inside a firgid, cheap motel room at the height of summer. The drapes drawn acroos the huge window that you can never open. Through the crack in the drapes there is a pool with pastel chairs lined up and skinny, pale children running around on the concrete. Everything is nearly white and blown out form the sun compared to the dark interior of the room in which you are paralyzed. You've eternally just arrived.

Lying in bed next to someone who feels strange, who you're afraid to touch. You have a scratch in your throat, but you don't want to cough, afraid to move, for fear the coughing will never stop. Your body is wracked with the stifled involuntary jerks of the need for release. Eyes open, seeing nothing but the glowing alarm clock numbers that seem to vibrate in your stare reading 4:47.

The point, i fear, is no longer razor sharp.


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