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Passersby

March 20, 2013

By 3 am, the dreams rushed past her like people on a busy street, each clutching their story in purses and briefcases. This one turned right, this one stopped at a newstand, this one walked slower than the rest with tears rolling down pallid cheeks. In the morning, she remembered the ringed hand of one, the crushed velvet jacket of another. In the morning, she conjured up the feel of the dream she stopped and invited to dinner, course after course served as part of a formal, narrative feast.

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