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September 24, 2003 puzzled I hear whispers.  Looking up from a jigsaw puzzle, I see no lips moving.  But I hear the whispers. His soul-bone is broken, snapped in two.  And his metaphor-nerve was severed. The puzzle picture is face down and most of it is scattered in unconnected pieces.  Still I work at it. It's time for your bath.  You can finish the puzzle tomorrow. I hear the whispers again.  They sound like the scratchy rustling of a starched white uniform.

©  2003 by the beastmaster