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Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
I know this dream like the lines of my hand: a spark, unplanned.
We were, all of us, ethered
when the window broke. Soon after, the floor
Joker and the vacuity of influence
If a person can’t survive by the acid terms of the market, they don’t deserve to survive at all.
How Edward Snowden found his conscience