It’s Wednesday night in California.
We sit on metal chairs, which shriek
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Like Boccaccio’s idle rich, we tell ourselves stories to avoid admitting we can’t go back. The islands in my mind, vaster than this island on a ...
The story goes the man waited until the customers cleared the bank before robbing it. He hoped to be caught, because he struggled with his health and needed health ...
After you left, I put on the Pixies, lit a cigarette and looked out at the rain on the slate rooftops of Lazio, grey, riddled with satellites and slanted, orange ...
