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footsteps in the attic

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The roof is leaking, and as I lay awake the drops become footsteps in our attic, slow and pensive with the occasional stumble: a quick one-two as the drops try to fall together but fail. I think there must be something more profound in this, but I can only wait, anticipate the next drop, the next step, that comes, always, just a little off-beat as the tempo changes on me—from an agonizing grave to an indecipherable allegretto tranquillamente. It's a scherzino. And, oddly, there comes a trip-uh-let-trip-uh-let as I drift to sleep.



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