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Admit This to Women: I don't dip into the core, or the cares, of life. How there are so many men terrified of the end of time, waiting for rewards and punishments that never come. I don't even know how to write about sex. When I was having it I didn't understand it. And I have to ignore politics to avoid suicide. If I spoke of the meaning of life I would probably make life meaningless. I can't satisfy you any more than I can satisfy myself. But there are moments when I look in lonely clarity from a stilled distance to see your remarkably soft hair or your tough little hand or your liquid shadow draping an otherwise jagged part of the earth in a gentle, peculiar way, and I am stuck simplified and puzzled to the spot for unstained centuries, to document being in the mist of your breath no longer one body, helplessly watching you do your beautiful work.
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