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Authors:

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life. I have my iron desk that I hauled up three flights of stairs, with ropes and wedges. I have my pencils that I sharpen with a paring knife. There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time. Where do I stand in this light, which does not strictly exist?

Don DeLillo