The sun looked like an immolation victim behind tattered clouds. A waif half my size sat with me in an smog-filled parking lot and cried without weeping. Her mouth formed words I had already heard a week ago. The choppy syllables echoes in my other set of ears. I nodded sagely and pardoned her blasphemies in a low tone of commiseration. She left saddled with a deeper guilt than when we started.
8:07 p.m. - 2016-06-12
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