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To sit in the corner, at the hot dog stand where stout and good women served the dogs wrapped in lambskin, and signficant conversations took place in wet afternoons with games in the distant stadium. Here at the corner of birth, at the highway of happy memories when life was an old tarred roof children laid in soaking the sun and its mystical powers; here where life is and nothing else is.

The years funneled down the wheel-bitten roads toward the steeple and plaza of old dreams, never fulfilled but pulsing strong in a young man who doesn't care, doesn't conceive what the nature of unfulfillment may be. At that point when the blue sky flutters aimlessly with fragments of gas and low sirens. In the vistas of saintibility where law was powerful eyes and drums rattled through empty hallways to the hills of eucyleptus shade and glass.

The spot of memory. The powerful spot broken apart like a solid vein so you either tap it and let it run out forever into the disturbed air of once fierce words.

Old friends, good ghosts you are; I am back to tell your tales!

David Eide
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