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The pressure, as I stand on top of the hill and feel the pull of gravity from the other side, stems from all the questions popping up about "who am I?" and "what have I done with my life?" and "where did I leave my wine?"
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Showing posts from September, 2018
A letter to my son, during the Indian Summer of his childhood:
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Forty is an F-word, but a good one.
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