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Flashback to the Crab Nebula In the library, I find the book left backwards, pages turned into a blackout. Tomorrow you will hear a bird downtown with a whistle like mine. Memory reverberates throughout a life: wide, white. When we notice it, it dazzles, dying light of a star that cannot make crops grow, loved only by a lonely cowboy sleeping beneath. And still we are driven to explore: small fires burn bright; what are you supposed to do when you see the flash? Split the night open and crawl inside, a sleeping bag that you have carried all day.
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