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November was a stuttering of days, and I am dreading in the next month a repetition.

(Why do people hold hope in such high regard? I do not understand. If I could resign myself to an inevitable–no matter how cruel–I could let go, and avoid the mocking pain of daily expectation dashed, and fractured, and dashed again. But hope keeps dancing–perhaps today! or today! or?–and I like a fool keep gasping on.)

Ah well. I cannot complain: there are worse fates, and worse sentences, and I have never loved the holidays. I shouldn’t complain: I am not the one detained, nor subject here to the cruel exclusions of alienage. Still, I miss him, and still I worry, and still I do not understand how the roulette of birthplace can render one subject to such bland and flabby injustice. Immigrant detention is ostensibly an administrative necessity, and not meant to be punitive, but I cannot conceive of being locked for over a month in a room with no daylight as anything but punishment. (M’s skin has turned ghostly; it has been over four weeks, and I have never seen him so pale.)

Meanwhile, I go through the motions, and hold to routine. (I am not sure whether to be grateful for or shaken by the fact that the world is so immune to rupture; that the world, despite personal upset, plods dementedly ahead.) I attend to my papers. I submit invoices. I manage inventory. I pay the bills. I try, and I fail, to sleep.

I don’t know what I expected. This entire planet is a blister of irritation, infected and teeming in a universe otherwise pure; to be alive and a part of it is to ache. What is there to do but love, then? What is there to do but weep?

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