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Murmurings


The jaw on the floor has red handles. I oiled its semicircular teeth and turned a black ring into water. I deserved, I thought, a long and wishful nap in my extremely comfortable chair. A better grade of tape was what that pipe needed, the other bearded man joked, a good one. My military flashlight bends like an elbow and has a compartment filled with filters and diffusers. The floors are cold on my knees. The enemy were beaten back at dawn along the flank by a single platoon the sergeant commanded. Maybe it has something to do with this broken toe I can’t lose. The children in Calcutta are taking pictures. A loud cracking noise inside my room, three times, one then one two. Perhaps a bucket of water has fallen through the sunlight. Wasn’t there something, long ago, a love letter from the prince to his mistress? I’m not well prepared to continue this indefinitely.