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February 6, 2014

     He came back to himself after he’d been knocked down the second time, back from the blackout into life.  Getting himself atop his feet and his hands up, understanding he was in a fight with someone; shrugging his shoulders up, tucking his head down.  He was boxing them and he couldn’t understand why.  He knew better than to box people.   There were more than one, more than two, the blows coming from all directions, thudding against his shell and rocking him, but not penetrating.  He was landing his fast, accurate punches; he could tell from the pain in his hands and wondered if hitting was hurting him worse than being hit.  He was giving it back to him, but didn’t have the steam behind his punches to finish anything.  He went down again, a combination of getting hit and being off balance and, pushing himself up from the pavement, realized that he must be outside.  There was, he thought, no point in getting up on his feet, but he did so anyway.


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