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■ Escapism
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And I'll tell you what kills me-
Cinders and Smoke when I go to bed at night kills me; the white sheets, the white sheets, the gzillion-thread-count Egyptian Cotton white sheets kill me, while Cinders and Smoke tortures me, while I wait for the white-noise buzz of your call, the Silent Profile On buzz of your call, while The Trapeze Swinger starts its do-do-doo, sweetly bland, and you still haven't rung, and the white sheets, and it's killing me, this waiting, waiting, this white wanting, and sometimes I check my Call Register after you've called, just to read the word Unknown ...as if that has become your name: Unknown... and I even look at the time you rang, as though it will give away some inscrutable clue that I've overlooked, and, because your name to me is now Unknown, I have some profound attachment to the word, and I imagine, one of these days, when you've emailed and explained, and you've finished off with: I'm sure you'll understand... that the word, Unknown, will be a white torture to my aching insides, for a time, or maybe even forever- for a colourless eternity. And that's why I hope the phone will buzz before the next song, which is Flightless Bird, and which is so indescribably sad that I don't think I'd be able to bear the two at the same time: the sad, sad song and the silent phone.
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