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  • A handful of miles from the coast a man dreams. Fixes things and remembers. Fills a mammoth metal barn with this and that, drinks beer from bottles. He’s beneath, between, beyond.

    I’m here looking. With my camera. Looking for my words. They’ve gone missing. And I think they might be around here somewhere.

    He doesn’t mind me taking pictures of whatever. He doesn't make me talk. And that’s a good thing, for I am groping around in the dark of the second floor—baffled, spastic, wordless, snagged on maybe, camera circling circling.

    I see flags and dolls and cabinets and hoses and engines and bits of engines and wheels and bottles and stuff I can’t place. I see a rat.

    And then I see him. And for a minute I think it’s me down there in that car.
    He sits. I watch.

    And wait.
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