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The thermostat in here says 72 degrees. It doesn't feel like 72 degrees. 72 degrees is a soft and gentle day, a breeze barely able to brush the hairs on your arm, and sunlight that seems to float. 72 degrees is May and an afternoon lying in the grass. 72 degrees is new sneakers and running as fast as you can, jumping into the air and landing feet first on the cellar bulkhead door. 72 degrees is no limits, no sorrows, no worries, no history, no future. My hands get so cold now and nothing I can do makes them warmer for any length of time. Sometimes I run the faucet on the bathroom sink until the water gives off steam, and hold my hands in the spray, but all it does is make them burn, and as soon as I turn them off they are cold again. My hands tell me it can't possibly be 72 degrees, and I know they are right. They feel the world, and when I touch myself they tell me what a cold, cold place it has become, and how I have grown cold along with it.
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