Your support is critical to our existence.
My body is a drum, its last vibration fading out. My body is a temple, serene and contemplative, all voices finally stilled. My body is a glider plane, floating on warm currents of air in the eerie, engineless quiet.
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My father makes me cry when he starts crying and walks into the kitchen to call 911 because he doesn’t know how to fix this. He is the guy who could always fix everything.
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Ten years later I still wondered about those aviator glasses and whether The Breakfast Club could restore us.
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