I wonder if my hatred of paper is just another form of mourning.
Who could not be superstitious, sentimental, and impractical around matters of death?
“It wasn’t that I wanted to be thinner; I didn’t want a body at all.”
“As my feelings for R. grow, I find excuses to touch him, to mark him as my own.”
“Hair, and what is done to it and by whom, is never really trivial.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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