Wednesday, August 01, 2007


The temperature inside your body must be zero degrees Celsius. You see me swimming in a quicksand lake, yelling "I'm dying! I'm not kidding! I'm dying!" and you quickly turn the corner to buy a newspaper from a blind man. Or you notice me being mugged by a fifty foot tall revolver, a bullet as large as my body, the trigger finger being rubbed by poison ivy, and you take a call on your cell phone instead. I can't cut you open to be sure, because that's against the law, I've heard, or acceptable only during surgery to replace malfunctioning organs. Perhaps I should hide in your closet with a surgical mask and a scalpel. When they find me over your form, frozen solid like a fudge pop, I will tell them I'm a professional who knew a blizzard was contained in you. I will them I had to be sure.


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