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I read Howl last night.

The slumbering starry eyed misfits stumbling, sleepwalking through the pock-marked streets and gutters.

Not knowing where they were headed, where they were from.

I saw the great white bearded somnambulists belting out a hymn.

I saw a mother crying, trying her best to gather enough to feed her two kids.

I walked with a mole-faced man- a pit in his stomach and a dollar in his hand, howling at the moon.

I talked to the man of all men, the herculean epistle of the ages, the voice of a thousand distant slaves, still enslaved.

I came across a dying buffalo, bruised, bloodied, disemboweled.

And then I saw something that I will never forget.

I saw myself, or at least a shadow of myself, hiding, trying not to be noticed.

Muttering something about going home.

It was then that I knew I could never go home again.

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