Reading in bed with my book propped up against my knees. The sound of the ceiling fan above me. It is not the novel about the dog walker and the rich widower whose wife died in mysterious circumstances. (And, my friend was right, it did not end how I thought it would). No, this is a book that makes you feel small but also part of something big. Not unlike living on the 11th floor in the middle of a city. Inside me something goes off and then dissipates, like a forgotten firework found at the back of someone’s garage and launched long after the fourth of July.
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