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Cortazar, Julio

Axolotl

Last night, I did something I thought I’d never do. I went dancing. And not seated dive-barstool dancing when your picks come up on the jukebox, or late-night loftparty dancing, but proper dancing, at a Dance Club. I’ve never done anything quite like this, and will likely not again, but in those few hours, catching a glowing mid-bounce smile from a birthday girl while giving up the inhibitions of hips and feet, I felt okay, that this was, in some ways, a comparably healthful social outing. No booze or other toxins, our little circle impenetrable to the detritus of humanity surrounding us, and all that exercise, I’d wake up feeling like a billion bucks.

Instead I’m spent, and woke up wondering if I’d become an axolotl, only one with scratchy voice and ringing ears and creaky hipjoints. And how could I think such a thing and not read about it, axolotllic voice notwithstanding.

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