He was pulling the threads and cutting them at knife-edge like hands outstretched, severed. Point to another spot on the map and this absence would fit to your finger, a familiar empty lot on the walk home. No need to question the essence of living on this street, with this door opening you up this stairway and into this room. Elsewhere they don't worry they'll disappear if they stop searching for a name to label their moment in space and time. But here, in this place with too many names all mispronounced and fading from use, each strand's breaking sound was small and hurt, one by one at knife-edge, what had held a patch of the American flag to the warm, worn coat that sheltered him from winter.
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