I was having trouble sleeping. I don’t know how long I’d been lying there and listening to the blizzard when I had the most vivid impression that it was a blizzard in Minneapolis in 1959. And I found this deeply disturbing. I knew it would now have to turn on its lamp, get out of bed, and try to write about me; and of course no matter what it wrote, I would only sound like something it had made up. But in the end it decided to stay put, turn over, and keep me to itself. I think that was the right thing to do. After all, it was only a blizzard in Minneapolis in 1959. How are you supposed to describe something like me? And when you think about it, why should you try, why should you even care?
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