I swear to God I just saw Steven Spielberg in a beat up Chevy truck. He stopped right next to me at an intersection on University. It was Stephen, I could tell by the facial hair growth.
Above me no seraphims or nymphs, but crew-cut men, walkie-talkies, crisp uniforms, the tallest saying, "Sir, you'll have to leave." This room with its mahogany clock, azure lights, dozens of new chairs set in perfect lines, the grain smooth as vowels. Among tables a few students scribble notes, others thumb pages and everywhere the smell of fresh wax. Down four flights we march, one in front and one behind, past portraits of dour Southern fathers, stations splashed with lilies and nudes, past magazines, blunt newspapers, thy willowy librarian hovering with pictures above children, banished from this kingdom of books, dear lover, i too have wasted my life.
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