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Show 40 I am watching his elegance and ease with the simple act of writing. I have not been able to write for many weeks. He looks into my face as he writes my last red grievance onto this poster, his expression foretelling of a coup de grace. "What?" I ask. Evan reaches behind a fire-bush and brings out a grey carton of eggs. He is grinning. He fixes the poster against the wall. It stands condemned. "Take good aim," he is saying, "because I could only get 18 eggs from the kitchen." Eighteen eggs for all that red. I take good aim. My arms are wobbly and ill-controlled but from somewhere within comes a strengthening that would surprise all those doctors who had not listened. Splat! Splat! splat, splat, splat! Evan is handing me the eggs as fast as I am able to throw them. It is not that fast, but seeing the yellow run down the red is somehow gratifying in ways I had never imagined. There is clear goo smearing "nurse Demerol." Apiece of shell sticks onto "insurance/poverty." My arm is beginning to ache and I switch arms. This left arm has very bad aim and the egg hits the ground instead and breaks there. The dirt is greedily swallowing the yellow liquid. I am wanting to cry at |