On the tenth floor of UCSD hospital, imagining that land beyond the night mesas, glazed with the breath of an old man, my own, waiting for me in the landscape of weeks ahead when I will turn 60, past the minefield of carotic stenosis, aortic stenosis, and ischemic cardiomyopathy - antipersonnel mines of Greek and Latin death strewn between the trenches of here and then. I am looking north at the unhurried, shimmering serpent of Highway 163, up from Mission Valley to a borderland of gaudy neon streetlights, fogged and wintery stars.
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