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An elderly Asian servant sweeps the doorstep proteceted by a surgical mask.
Not a particle of the past transcends the warp of that shallow chalice tipped up to the mouth.
The cement for these houses was poureed about 1930.
Nothing substantial - no wine - no wafer - crosses the lip of 83 years.
... no getting ourselves back to the garden.
There is just the sound of Joni Mitchell's voice.
We are startdust, we are golden.