SO WHY AM I TIMBUKTU?
I may have written down every
word ever spoken : I'm just not
sure. The wind in the willows and
the Cadillac Grove. The Lance
and the Weaver Men, coming or
going. The sign on the Magistrate's
door reading: 'don't come here no
more.' We kill History by making
the Present. Now is what we never
were, and tomorrow is what will
never be? So why am I at Timbuktu?
Another outline for another me?
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