We sat and clipped yellowed articles from long-obsolete newspapers. We talked in a foreign language that sounded like syrup against sanded foam walls. She told me about her journeys to the land of milk and honey-- and how unbelievably, fantastically boring it was-- in mildly resentful tones.
I folded her a paper crane smaller than her finger, and let the faded orange sunset burn her fresh into my mind. I smiled without speaking much, and just listened.
9:14 p.m. - 2016-06-16
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