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I keep them hidden in a cigar box under some bushes in Golden Gate Park. As soon as I get ten balloons, I dig up the box and carefully place the new ones inside. I like sitting alone, in the silence of the park at night, shining my flashlight on my collection. I bury my face in their sticky, damp hollow bodies and inhale their rubbery glue-like scent, then I lie on the grass with the torn balloons that were my mother's draped over my closed eyelids like coins on a dead person, and I'm so comforted and soothed, I drift right to sleep.I am the Holy Ghost coming for their redemption, whether they like it or not.
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