Chapter Three
Sticking my head in a heated gas oven, I tried to recreate how it felt to be the male negro downstairs who was sweating profusely. It didn't work, and I didn't injure myself. What came to mind were the words that had come to consciousness while I was riding a public bus back from an errand on Colfax Street in Denver. a businessman had entered the stopped bus, and he seemed to say to me, "He can breathe, can't he?" To me that meant there was hope! My mind could breathe!
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