Three things I saw from the car window yesterday:

a man with one arm walking across a parking lot
a basketball hoop being pushed by three kids around the side of an apartment building

something else... something else...

I've been noticing people's scars more than ever before. The ways in which we hurt ourselves are so heart-breakingly specific. Deep and alternate. Many and paper thin. Arms, legs, stomachs. I wish I could read them like a story, but they are unyieldingly opaque. Nothing gives us as much information as we could wish. Writing semi-anonymously on the internet, for example. Whatever and however many words I write, it will never be a whole truth. But it is a whole picture.

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