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  • It's two thirty in the afternoon. I've been under a few close deadlines and I'm coming up from under mounds of virtual paper, a little dazed, a little slap-happy, and unexpectedly hungry.

    Into the office kitchen, a tin of sardines in mustard sauce. I don't remember my first impression, but by now their fishy taste means calm and satisfaction. I always eat them standing up, hovering over a sink or trash can or campfire, resting just long enough to scrape the last drops of sauce from the tin with a broken cracker before it's time to forge on again.
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