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My vein, so delicately bluish-green, splits open so easily, with but a single touch of a razor.  And out of it, equally delicately, comes a slow-spreading trickle of red. Viscous, almost frozen, the red spreads. Like molasses on a chilly autumn day.

The truth, here, is discursive, not literal.

That reminds me of a story once told by Harland Williams to a group of people assembled somewhere east of here, a story that takes place on a chilly autumn day, when he was sitting at home; and just as he – making himself comfortable on his old, worn-out couch in front of his old television set – just as he slit his vein with an old-fashioned razor blade, so shiny and new, just as blood started to pour out of him, slow like molasses on a chilly autumn day, he noticed some movies he had forgotten to return to the video store. What a bummer.

Sew sew sew. Quickly, before both the big and the little arm are on twelve. Or else: late fees.

Life, at times, is nothing but avoidance of late fees.

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