I know now not to measure my insides against others’ outsides.
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I came to computers while trying to run away from literature.
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The owl was a white that could not be compromised by any other color.
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Everything is mine on loan: the leaves I’ve combed out of my hands.
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Lee has taken on several of the great novelists of the past century.
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I could untie Minnie’s silk, restitch it into places I’ve lived.
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“We’re not like other species,” you say, a novelist at night.
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