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"What do you do?" he asked.
(We had just met that evening, and small talk seemed necessary.)
I think what he meant was, ""What is your occupation?" or "How do you make money?"
I started to answer as he would expect, but something made me change.


(I mean they have my body for eight hours a day, and my mind for some of that.
But my soul is not in that game, or my heart, if you will. Working for the company is not what I do.)


So I replied, "I sing, and I act a little. I love my family and friends. I walk in the woods, and I run in the snow.
I read and I write, and I agonize a great deal. I care deeply about many things, and I try unsuccessfully
to care about things I'm supposed to care about. I hurt those whom I love, and I can't make decisions.
What do you do?" I asked.


I found this in a box of old journals and pages of writing, paper-clipped together, typed on a machine
that had difficulty with the letter f and question marks. I believe it was an assignment I didn't want to do
based on a short poem by William Blake, called The Question Answered:


What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of gratified Desire.

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