It Could be Worse

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In the long day of the fading afternoon I asked you a question. You were sitting next to me and I had made a comment about whether you believed in quantum physics where different things can happen at different times. You told me to keep it short as you had someplace to be. I wasn’t expecting you to leave and that made me nervous. Sorry I spilt that thing on you. I hope it wasn’t too hot. I didn’t do it on purpose, I just get a little clumsy when I’m off-balance, and that’s where I was: I admitted that. I think my exact words were, “I don’t know how to ask you this.” And you said, “Imagine you already asked it in a different time.” And I shook the rim of my jacket, knocking off oh so much sand, and said to you what I’ve already said, but this time different—as it was for the last time.

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