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S I almost died in July. My brain was pre-arranged as scalloped potatoes, with gloppy cheese. Such symmetry Gourmondistry. I invented that word but not the illness. Too much of this too little that? The doctors said my body was rejecting fat. It was betraying itself So I went to church So I gave money to the poor, graven images, cab drivers, and the like. Then I saw my reflection in a store window. An exaggerated S a question mark awaiting its final rest.
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