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By Sean Nelson
On the fourth of September, a number was born.
A healthy statistic, it weighed ten pounds and one ounce.
It was a file in a doctor's office,
a case for the number abuse prosecutor,
an excellent elementary school report card, an educational expense of the state, a diploma, a college transcript which produced another diploma.
It was an employee, an economic contributor, a yearly tax filing in number two pencil.
It was a receipt at an arts supply store, a note-scribbled file in a psychologist's office, a pink slip, a missing number report, a felony robbery charge not filed for lack of an imprisoned number, a fingerprint recovered from a murder scene.
It was a hostage situation, a threatened subtraction of population numbers, a political manifesto printed at the point of a gun.
It was a headline about a daring escape, an article about a murdered policeman.
It was a number-hunt, ending in a self subtraction determined by dental records.
It was a suicide note, brave if optimistic. It said, "I am a man."
And it was, away in the forest, a toothless, bleeding gum Wagnerian revolutionary, recently escaped from the matrix, hoping to crash the computer and free his brothers.