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Last night, I held my glass tight and watched myself watching him, then all the charms I have built up failing and flailing and so forth. Then, in my dream, I felt him near, closer than anyone has been in years. My hand was resting on his head as our room became the morning’s cold blue light. I kept myself there for so long, knowing that in the real morning hollow clarity would welcome me, unrelentlessly. At the very last moment, I was holding a guitar walking into a crowd playing the first chords of that Skygreen Leopards song and exactly one hundred people joined me in singing the lines: Jesus was Californian/with Mary and the prophet Elijah/Jesus dreamt by the ocean/and slept through your tent revival. Even then I thought only of his upright posture as we walked away from each other in the hazy room. The hollow as the charred stone house in the wilderness.
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