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It’s Wednesday night in California. We sit on metal chairs, which shriek like helicopter blades clattering across the cement of a repurposed parking ...
She senses that I’m surviving so she doesn’t want to bother me. When she calls me, I whisper, I’m in the library, and we don’t talk for days. It’s my fault that I forget ...
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 ...