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January 8, 2011
The day is made of itself, psychical foot pressed to the throttle, hauling down the rutted roads, smooth highways, dark byways, secretive sideways, screaming over the discarded entrails of the past, meditatively swart and bright by the fueling moil of present digestions with hopeful incarnations diagrammed, lost and found in a flash, in a blink, on a last second lunge to the speculations least held lightly or heavily dropped, but no, no, I screech to the necessary halt, and see...it is this, right here, all of it; I needn't look elsewhere, the universe horrific and beatific in my thumbnail.