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at the time of his assassination: |
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two pairs of spectacles, a lens polisher, a pocket knife, a watch fob, a linen handkerchief, |
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a brown leather wallet containing five dollars |
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in confederate money and nine newspaper clippings |
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that there is walt whitman's pen |
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it sat in his hand and drank ink and whitman lay upstairs |
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and watched the trains, fascinated by the big engines |
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me, i'm just anxious. |
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lincoln struck at the back of the head as if by a velvet curtain |
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his body lists and folds, creased at the hip, and rolls to the floor beside his seat |
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the light's gone out, but even now he's radiating heat |
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these relics rise like steam and each disseminates, encircling |
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like a halo down trajectory of a common crowd, simmering |
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slammed to the back of your head |
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you've never been hit before |
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how can you deal with that kind of information? |
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slammed to your chest |
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like a curtain hits the floor |
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how can you deal with that kind of information? |