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 Monday, December 15, 2003
from today's new yorker
ON THE DEATH OF A CAT In life, death was nothing to you: I am willing to wager my soul that it simply never occurred to your nightmareless mind, while sleep was everything (see it raised to an infinite power and perfection) -- no death in you then, so now how even less. Dear stealth of innocence licked polished to an evil lustre, little milk fang, whiskered night friend -- go. -- Franz Wright thank you posted by moya | permalink |
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