Truth
Truth

Truth

I feel like a hermit, a monk, a mendicant. Or perhaps like one of Pavlov’s dogs, waiting for the bell to ring. Or a prisoner, pacing in a cell. Or a writer, shut inside a warm Room with a bad bed, waiting for words. In my waiting I wonder why it has taken me a year and a half to see what’s missing from this story; it is like we both—Frederick and I—have been avoiding the truth together. I have re-read, and moved paragraphs with arrows, and made notes with red pen. I have a lot to write; Frederick has a lot to remember.

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