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When the night stretches too long, when the chairs empty one by one, he remains, feet tapping, a memory of something still settling. And in the quiet, as coats are gathered and doors swing closed, you think of the thread again, unbroken, but there, a small thing you can live with, a small thing you never quite decide to cut. 5 22 5 18 25 2 15 4 25 1 3 20 12 9 11 5 20 8 5 25 3 1 18 5