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A Small Boy. On a Chain.

The woman’s name is Lizzy. The woman with the blue Datsun. I forgot to say that.

My publicist says that I can still make it to New York and maybe a Boston appearance if I’m feeling up to it. I’m not.

I had three egg salad sandwiches today. I cannot understand how Americans eat this. It’s like yellow paste.

I have locked the doors in my motel and drawn the curtains. I have a small knife and a panic button keychain that makes a most obnoxious noise when I press it. All of this so that I can tell you:

In Palimpsest, there is a woman named Casimira. I only met her once. She is like an empress there, though she isn’t official. I met her only once, on the trains there. She was en route to the dedication of a war memorial. She had a small boy on a chain. She looked at me over the dining car and said:

Write a book for me, and I will let you kiss my foot.

It was the day after I met her that I began Train Travel. Ah, what I will do for a cause.

In all my night in Palimpsest since, she has never appeared to give me my reward. That is how things are in that place. I know that now.

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