Loneliness. An airport at 3 a.m. Somewhere, the sound of vacuuming. A beat-up old suitcase, unclaimed, goes around all night on the carousel. My life is like that bag. No, even worse … my life is like a squeezed-out tube of Anusol in that bag. Actually, I flatter myself—my life is not like the entire tube of Anusol but just the part that goes in the rectum.
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