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Probably you were making love a couple times, you were getting busy.

Laying sod, planting trees, paving a walkway. Perhaps you called your mother.

Perhaps your child. Driving from L.A. to the Mexican border can take what.

The estimate for the bathroom, 15 to 20K. What’s the weather going to be like, when you arrive?

Something about Gaza. The woman’s car in the intersection…

You parked and by the time you got there, two other guys showed up to help push.

Rutsu 18, or Tokoro in S. Pasadena? Bombed out buildings like from World War II, gray concrete dust.

Gray concrete dust on survivors. The Israelis.

News on in another room; saturated arena colors of a flat screen in a sports bar, Washington DC?

Dim sports bar? A toddler cradled in a hunched father’s arms, missing the top of the head.

How much had you? How much more to drink? Two or three maybe.

Phrase, tit for tat, something like that. It canceled out. How much money was it to you?

New appliances, developments in robotics, software versus hardware. Debt.

How’s traffic? How’s it look? If you peeked and saw Gaza you saw it.

You saw the end of your world, your own death in a way, the limit of sighs.

A breath, your own, and someone talking, saying something you didn’t quite catch.

Hedges, fences and trees as you drive on. Houses, neighborhoods of night streets. Little universes.

 

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