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It was good while it lasted.
As if all color had drained out of things.
Marshmallows. I see the marshmallows. They fling themselves above me, high flyin’. I watch them with a dulled absorption.
The morning after the coup d’etat, we walked up the rocky trail behind Elkin’s house to the Prozac Tree.
Investigative reporters are insecure and imprudently curious. It drives our work and it savages our lives.
It's hard to know how many other towns still have poison in their soil.
We should call this what it is: the automation of selling out.