Thursday, March 01, 2007


Imagine being a loaded bullet. All your life you've waited for this moment -- playing with other bits of metal in the factory, going through gunpowder initiations, graduating to your own box of armaments. You're finally in the rifle, snug inside its warmth, eager to taste a duck you remember from the legends of hunters told to you by a holster. Except, you feel horrible, chilled like the machinery that created you. You have the premonition that a doctor will tear you out of a brain, and that you will drop something that belonged in the sky, the head star of a nation that guides the people, who are a ship suddenly plunged into the dark. No wind, the squeezing of a forceps, the gaping, endless wound.


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