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Boys play with death as though it were a game, cutting their teeth on daggers.

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We're so old that the winds of age echo along our ribs and pick at our eye sockets. We could be gone tomorrow. A chill, say, or a little slip on the c...more

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For it would be only for a time. Until what he knew and thought became no longer relevant or necessary and was forgotten. But that was the same with a...more