From the previous millennium, I pick out fragments of mythical time of exams. Those of heightened sexual desire coupled with precarious middle-classy self-crises. Times of repeated square walks around a quadrangular patch of public grass. Times of vengeance and empathy and lacerated ego. Times of leisurely flirtatious walks to a nightly cup of coffee. Loiter. Linger. Fidget. Procrastinate. Maternal pat-on-the-back. Neighborhood guards' sticks marking time into the night and closer to the day. Xerox. Psychlo-style. Paper-festivity. Sharp nibs of black. Always. Family tradition. Time of Facebook. Email. Blog. Huffpost. Guardian. New Yorker. Words, catch-phrases, powdered postcolonial theory, long-winded sentences saying simple things about subalterns and sovereigns to be patted onto the skin. So one looks pretty writing under the arclights.


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