Winter 2025
It was on a mid-June morning that the stranger first called.
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My imagination has been weak lately, caught in some half-world.
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I hear Tchaikovsky when I close my eyes and pretend I’m flying.
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How can anyone imagine sleep is possible in such a time?
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Dance with you? I said after a moment. That’s your dare?
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The little door would appear in my mind’s eye, except that now it was ajar.
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Fitzgerald was about to turn thirty and felt the press of time.
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