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18th June 2009
10:53pm: deadly ticking of a thousand hungry clocks, the lonely sound of time passing
( Yeah, they all ended up like Puerto Ricans. They fled and they couldn’t say why, but they damn well wanted out and they didn’t care if the newspapers understood or not. Somehow they got the idea that by getting the hell away from where they were they could find something better. They heard the word, the rotten devilish word that makes people incoherent with desire to move on – not everybody in the world lives in tin shacks with no toilets and no money at all and no food but rice and beans, not everybody cuts sugarcane for a dollar a day, or hauls a load of coconuts into town to sell for two cents each – the cheap, hot, hungry, world of their fathers and their grandfathers and all their brothers and sisters was not the whole story, because if a man could muster the guts or even the desperation to move a few thousand miles there was a pretty good chance that he’d have money in his pocket and meat in his belly and one hell of a romping good time. )
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