In bed til late morning with somebody reading Foucault reading Kant reading all that came before him all served with a generous portion of birthday Tiramisu in a silent, empty, vacant, non-judging, cold house occupied by a bed with a mattress and a number of blankets above and below the one with the holiday 'tude rendered warm, somewhat sweet and somewhat flabby and all round happy as for whom the bell tolls, tis not for thee, not for anyone. For today, still a holiday, she can suspend the belief that we, we are... not free?
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