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To Emma Alvarez Gibson's previous piece
And A Fighter By His Trade You wear that shirt when you are tired. It billows, dwarfs you. You tell me dismayed I guess I forgot my belt today. You look through everyone, make each call more painfully jovial, until at last you hang up and secretly, for two seconds, sink. Then you strike up again, an orchestra with one song playing like life depends on it because it does, and because men do what needs to be done.
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