DO WHAT YOU MUST DO
My mother was a Copek rail, my father was a
dead ringer : in both their times on Earth the
substance was the same - things to be done and
no way of doing them. Dance hall stories, Navy
men on crooked piers, defense plants with
fierce machinery, injuries, hearts and diapers.
What it all amounted to was an end run around
the truth - we are alive, for a sternly limited
amount of time, and then we are not.
Do whatever you must do.
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