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June 4, 2005

The Eschatologist: Lunch Hour

"Time," says the poet, "is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."

Pithy, I thought. But in this case, so very true. I loitered on the horn while twisting the wheel in a way that would make my acceptance into the IRL a foregone conclusion. Traffic flailed about me as the engine purred, just getting warmed up. I could practically hear the smile coming from under the hood.

Was that a red light? Nah, must have been yellow.

I did a double take at my watch. Oh shit. I thumped it against the door. Still nothing.

Latelatelatelate.

And now sirens. Just wonderful.

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