Title: Optional

Text: My fingers "run the bowel" looking for holes that a blade or bullet might have created, coil after glistening coil, twenty-three feet of it compacted into such a small space. The gut that has slithered past my fingers like this in the African night would by now reach the Cape of Good Hope, and I have yet to see the ordinary miracles under skin and rib and muscle, visions concealed from their owner. Is there a greater privilege on earth? Each paragraph will be a test.

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