“My perfect lifetime-day would coerce the sun to shine through a pall of obscurity, dimmed and tame and icy. Iceland, where morning time resembles evening lights, and where the cold preserves simplicity inside a blue balloon. Outside my weather-worn cottage, I sit and write, slumped in a wooden chair, a blanket cozying up to my laptop, lead-poisoning my limbs. I’ve lived through everything now, no more left to experience that would merit noteworthy phrasing spilled onto the screen. My manuscr...
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