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I am bothered by my mortality. It lurks not in the cold, in shivers, in running up stairs with childhood’s ghost behind me when picked to turn the basement light off — inevitability can’t grab my hiking boots scrabbling over bald rock ever higher, can’t follow me into orgasm or over waterfalls in midsummer somewhere nice, but in the sunshine on an unbearably frozen day for a moment I see blue-eyed infant open-mouthed grin with a sense of eternity, of the river flowing nonstop, of the slow beautiful dying from which we distract ourselves.

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