Fall 2025
Nothing is beyond texture. Wind mouths the shape of clouds.
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The car is only a couple years old, but its memory taps into the past.
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Luther always had his eye on the back fence, as if he was like an animal.
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By the time the sun was barely over the trees, they’d started burning.
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At fifty, a new love feels like a particular kind of hopelessness.
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The boy had never before seen his father hopeless. He was afraid.
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Fortyish, give or take, each of them correctly estimates the other to be.
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