by Howie Good

The Grand Canal from Panama to France was open again. Beware the pickpockets of Lisbon! “Spell that,” the man on the phone said. My head bobbed about like a balloon on a string. “E,” I started, “as in exoskeleton” when I suddenly felt weirdly detached. The night rolled in. I was breathing like I had scarred lungs. Does good equal saintly? I asked myself. There was once a painter who loved paint so much that he drank a jar of it. It’s called the “path of totality” despite the treachery of words. One drew a knife and shot him.

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