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Writing is Like Using a Washing Machine. Kind of.

Imagine me, aged twenty-three, in a cramped room with a tin roof, the only furnishings a collapsible aluminum table, a plastic lawn chair, and a ragged futon pressed against the far wall. Black rot blossoms along the molding, and every dog in the city barks at passersby who blink too loudly. This is where I… Continue reading Writing is Like Using a Washing Machine. Kind of.

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