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Posted on September 27th, 2007 by metasj.
Categories: Glory, glory, glory.
I walked through the Yard early this morning, with a bag in one hand (filled with breakfast remains) and a phone in the other (filled with digital desid.), holding onto each only by fingertips. There was a light breeze from the west. For three breaths I was filled with a primal joy in friction. Holding things felt particularly freeing.
It passed; in another minute I was trundling east at forty miles an hour; I jumped into conversation with Tariq Krim and a night’s century of mail and the rest of the world.
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