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9:37 p.m. - 2003-10-08 I guess they collect in other people�s memories like dingy yellow sheets of paper from an office in the sixties. Sometimes when I make a left onto the last bridge between me and work, I look over the edge at all that empty space and think... I could fly long enough to know I was flying. And somewhere in a dark room a machine hums over the ones and zeroes that detail my payments and transgressions. I haven�t been free long enough to know I was free
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