We’ll always have Paris (and social anxiety)

A reckoning

Cactus Yordy

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I was sick and dreaming through a heavy sweat, an overnight fever. Accompanying me: shells, shrouds, ghosts, and ghouls, filing cabinets of half-lives and quarter-turns forsaken in a long arc of cautious decisions and a hundred more reckless. There is a monastery, a stethoscope, a field of green turf lined with white chalk. There is short-hand and quick-lived regret: the bottles of domestic I wish the disposal could have consumed before I laid my fingers around the cold and frosty glass, the broad shoulders of a friend in derision I…

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