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202. Keep Waiting

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Hope is foolishly the main resort over sensible thinking. Like when you’re drowning and you hope, sooner or later, your panic-stricken toes will touch solid ground. I danced, looking down at the mosaic floor. It stared back, unimpressed. Poe sat in her wheelchair, whistling. An old Jim Reeves tune, where he calls his lover a snowflake, drifts across the Common Room. The pot-bellied guard taps his left foot and I lie back on the couch, staring up at the Christmas streamers and rice lights. They said one week. That was in July. Maybe, the paperwork was holding them up.

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