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Less Time

 Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account
of everything, there you have it.
I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all were willing to accpet them.
I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other.
You see what you still have to do.
Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes (underline passes).
You don't know this man? It's Mr.
Same.
May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children.
Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on.
I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me.
Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X.
Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.

Poem by Richard Brautigan
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