Someone reminded me the other day of the cheery, hopeful headspace in which I arrived and the fact of having taken, over these last years, as we all do, as one might naturally expect to happen, rite of passage, the only possible nurture mode of mid20s blah, a critical browbeating. Across a few axes, so spreads the gray ambience. A chosen browbeating—of insulation, too, at that—I say back, knowing it would be gray and what the grayness does, though its precise lessons who can really account for, now that they are vacuum packed from the pile-up. Feeling a stranger to that more buoyant version of "before," without straining to remember, nor to re-feel her valleys, here we are inside-out again, and of course, isn't it the same for everyone, everywhere? Participating—maybe complaining—and still keeping on. Only that to smile by the exceptional, favorite way of summoning street magic, one must insist on particulars.
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