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Mourning a lost friend

I’ve spent a good part of the day thinking about a lost friend. There are those friendships that fade away to be rekindled later. Some just sort of peter out over time. I think about the friends I lost long ago due my own bad behavior, particularly when I was drinking so heavily. But that kind of loss has only occurred in my sober life a couple of times. I feel the sadness of their loss whenever life slows down for a moment.

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The postman and the plague

When I’m out on a route in normal, walking-around times, I hardly see a human being. I carry mail in the suburbs, where a kind of deadly silence pervades the atmosphere. The houses ae empty or seem so. At the same time, I get the feeling of being watched, surveilled, as if eyes peer from the dark interiors of those houses.

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The sickest I’ve ever been

I’ll never forget the feeling of falling, endlessly falling. I was lying in my room, bed oriented toward the door. I felt bigger than normal, as if I was expanding, slowly but inevitably turning into Rabelais’ Gargantua. The loneliness was deep, almost impenetrable. I looked out at the room around me and down the hall outside the door. Everything had collapse to two dimensions. Though I could dig no deeper into the blankets, I was dropping, moving backward out of the scene.

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The bow of the ship

In the sodden southern tail of Illinois, the Shawnee National Forest stands in shades of green and brown and gray. It was here that Kristi and I spent one weekend under a thunderous sky. It was very early on in a tumultuous relationship that would last three or more years, a relationship that changed me, and probably the both of us irrevocably.

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