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Sunday, November 16, 2003

"And suddenly it is evening." 

I remember math classes where I imagined myself swinging a baseball bat at the cold brick walls, the neat vertical lines of the numbers crunching forward, the back of the chalk board exposing itself.

I read the death notices today. Two 87-year-old men died. One had merely a line: his name and an obscure funeral home. No family, no friends, no beloved. A 21-year-old student died, circumstances not given. A two-day-old boy died; "but he gave us so much," was written.

There are still days -- even Sunday nights -- when I wish I could drink myself numb.

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