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It was lag be-omer when I hit my head repeatedly against the wall of the small caravan outside they were dancing hora and hasapikos and several melodies rushed like purgatory into the upward draft my teeth chattered my snow soul froze in bone ice suddenly melting the melodies circled like a sky organ while blood died in my fingertips painfully the cells slid stinking into piss not to think of sleep or rest God in heaven how the music raved outside sweat pouring through mattress to water weeds beneath the fissured floor the only thing how do I exit skin could not lie down tried sitting could not sit tried walking could not walk went foetal lay impossibly on the short bed while all the grass and flowers and leaves the whole rancid dancing curd screamed for the next twelve hours one had to keep the stiff upper et cetera because I knew how it would go the abrupt release when suddenly in spite of the pain one could feel that it was over one could feel that after these few days there would be sleep again there would be a three month break one could sleep the waking sleep of life like the dancers out there in hell's park.
lag be-omer: Jewish feast of the fires.
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