This is my fault, I realize as I stand in the cold not knowing whether to turn right or left, I’m always losing things.
Not that bloodbath story, but the small story. The meanwhile across town story.
Every interaction feels risky these days because of how novel they’ve become.
When he was still a kitten he had figured it all out.
Why would a bear suddenly appear in Brentwood Village on a Thursday afternoon and begin mauling/killing/consuming denizens willy-nilly?
People are not as close as they once were, I thought he said.
If there is one thing he has learned in all his years of diving and grifting, it is that women love a man with a secret wound.
Roads now spread like veins from farm to farm, ferrying cars to every corner of the island while our horses grow rust in the wind.
“The Shokunin does not speak of his past.”
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