IN THE MANNER OF 91
When I was young I was hit by a train.
When I awoke, much later, I was not much
the same. Pieces had flown all around me; things
were different again. How is it that we are out here
to tell a story and then exit? Quietly, I suppose, is
expected. There was a glimmering light in a very
bright canyon. I was headed there, but got turned
around. Now, so much later, I can remember
everything again just as if it really happened;
yet I know this life is but the merest illusion.
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