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Will it come like this, then? A predilection? A pre-figuration of doom? A desire, latent and metastatic within the marrow of our own ponderous bones? Even as we claim, with trumpets blaring and blades whirring, that we have written history out of our new narrative, even as we have retired the books from circulation and closed the libraries, crumpled the prophecies as though they were dime-store fortunes snatched from cookies . . . haven't we always understood that we will tumble eventually into the shadows, crumble to dust, be dismissed by time? Yet, even as we note the ground tremble beneath our feet, we reason, it is just a train passing through the subterra, another signal (don't you see?) that our powers move even the earth itself.
Penn Station, New York City, February 8, 2007
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