Construction on our street no longer even rates a jackhammer, it seems: the ponderously concrete-cracking blows reverberating directly across the road are the product of effectively punching the sidewalk with a backhoe. I have those mornings, too, but I don't make my neighbors listen to them. Facebook permanently deactivated my account in the night, deleting fourteen years' worth of memories, photos, conversations, connections, my profile picture on a mountainside in Vancouver. It is still nice to read political news that does not feel like the rear view of an event horizon. My plan for the rest of the day is heavily tilted toward returning from this afternoon's doctor's appointment and trying to sleep.
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- 1: Sure as the morning light when frigid love and fallen doves take flight
- 2: What does it do when we're asleep?
- 3: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
- 4: And in the end they might even thank me with a garden in my name
- 5: I'd marry her this minute if she only would agree
- 6: And me? Well, I'm just the narrator
- 7: And how it gets you home safe and then messes the house up
- 8: Now where did you get that from, John le Carré?
- 9: This is what I get for being civilized
- 10: Open up your mouth, but the melody is broken
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