Thursday, January 06, 2011

Thousand: Two Hundred Forty-Seven

diving out of the sun, its nose pointed right at the building he’s standing in. There’s a terrorist piloting that, he thinks. The plane is going to obliterate us, everyone aboard will die. Oddly, this thought does not terrify. Oughtn’t it? It does puzzle him a little. The thought itself, not the plane. That we are thinking and that our thinking takes time. One could probably divide a thought into components. Somebody probably’s already had a go at that. The sort of thing people get up to. Philosophers. Here, now, Ed says, placing his hands on Samuel’s shoulders and nudging

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