Some mornings you wake up knowing that you have lived this day
before, perhaps on more than one occasion. Perhaps the last several years
have consisted of nothing but this day, repeated hundreds of times over.
But the sameness of the experience does not forestall age or fatigue, or
the feeling that the universe has somehow forgotten all about you. You
could create a homicidal monster from an assemblage of body parts or
assassinate a world leader on live television and nothing would happen: no
apprehension, no punishment, no peasants with torches marching up the
driveway. You could weld a million aluminum laws chairs together into a
replica of the Eiffel Tower and never live to see it photographed for Time.
You're just a wad of Juicy Fruit gum flattened under God's card table. The
only woman who will even look at you is Fate, as she stands over your sink
in apron and slippers, peeling potatoes and dropping them into a pot of
lukewarm water. Hi, sweetheart, you say. I'm home. Hi, Hotshot, she
mutters, her cigarette-singed voice splintering across the air between
you.You never left.
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