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Rabindra K. Swain Inconsolable All the lies you have repeated to yourself, all the answers you have sought, the flaring, the rage, helplessness giving way to the quintessential wreck, this night grows inconsolable like that bewitching red fruit for its ugly black inside— what’s its name? No use asking it. It is very much there, the rotting of the core. It seeks the way of a pebble sinking to the bottom. It is sick of the heart to go on asking questions.