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28-04-2008 09:35
 
my grandfather, too, told stories while standing on his one good leg. when told to sit, he'd take the strongest chair in the room and cut the back left leg from it. he still wouldn't sit, and my grandmother would retrieve the chair and lock it in the the guest room to await the day she could play host to a party of guests as strong as her husband. those guests, of course, never arrived, busy as they were populating letters and poems. when I sit down to read, to write, it's things such as the above that I limp, nobly, toward.
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