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with the suffering sailor.
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This is when it first occurs to her
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that the whole world is being organized around her:
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Nothing of the night's could touch her.
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Nothing did.
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The repetition of symbols was to be enough, without trauma,
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as well, perhaps, to attenuate it,
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or even jar it altogether loose from her memory.
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She was meant to remember.
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She faced that possibility as she might the toy street from a high
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balcony, roller-coaster ride, feeding time among the beasts in a zoo,
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any death wish that can be consummated by some minimum gesture.