Like a thing with two heads or two tails, we chase our tales back to the beginning and anticipate closure.

But aren't we all outside of our stories, or are our stories really ourselves, flailing around in the back of a truck like a deranged but obedient hound?

Did that sound funny, or should I say it again to drive home the dehiscence of tautology?

Ah, but let's start again so that we can't be mistaken: you want something and I want something to cling to, some refrain to come falling from the sky and whet our indubitable aurality.


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