For D, who died
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DEAR D,
The morning after you died, I went kickboxing. Through the 23 minutes, the mirrors bounced off attempts to breathe. A breath is life, and I thought I should keep at it. The business of life.
Not that I wanted to be there. Life is thrust upon us, and from the moment of consciousness, a series of false choices are presented for the picking. Once you cross 35 years, muscle gain stops, and presumably the decline is sharpened.
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