Fall 2024
I felt that this maternal oblivion could be the rest of my life.
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One who has suffered enough, you can love yourself to death.
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I could go in for some pie why the hell not, there’s so little time.
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Fitzgerald was about to turn thirty and felt the press of time.
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Strange then, strange now, that language wants to be alone with me.
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How can anyone imagine sleep is possible in such a time?
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