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No sense in mincing a lot of words about the incident, because like most similar incidents, it was a simple incident with a simple narrative that can be written with simple dialogue.

I started my education on January 19, 1965, a very fresh young man with swagger and an imagined cowboy hat on the top of my head. There were cold, stagnant tables in every room, and we were aligned in rows, very tidy. I stopped thinking almost immediately and began to learn all the wanders of the world, of dead ancient cities and beautiful dead languages, but now in hindsight, they should not have had to remain alive, because that was our job: to bring life to them, to rebuild these places and men.

I continued my new mission of altruism daily by reading of my past history and trying to fix the mistakes in my head and recreate the righteousness of ***, as my books had dictated it should be so.

I walked the streets of downtown nodding at every man and smiling my humility at them hoping that they understood that I understood what my gift was supposed to be. To them I revoked my idea of the American Dream and other kinds of love and admiration with a not-too-firm handshake to let them know of my education.

My mentor passed away around that time and sadly I can’t remember mourning him much. We would walk and talk, like when I was a child, and cut things down and carry them and smoke, and I buried those things on graduation long before I buried him. He was not smart. That I remember. And his hatred that he felt when he got pushed aside by a new and better mentor was violent. “I cannot be replaced,” he would say. I decided he could.

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