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If I remove the walls, time moves very slowly. Suddenly there is so much time, I am rich with it. When running from thing to thing, this to that, one to another, we all make walls for ourselves: arbitrary parameters, seemingly immoveable deadlines, misguided notions of perfection, a self-imposed (culturally-imposed) requirement to produce something, if only a paycheque. When I was 19 I bought a little book called Less is More in an ‘alternative’ bookshop in Victoria, BC—such a shop as hardly exists anymore, but I can still smell the air and feel my heart cracking open with the tinkling of the bell over the door. I’ve moved often since then, and before each move, quite determinedly, have given away literally hundreds and hundreds of books. But this one I have always kept; it sits on my shelf like a beacon. I don’t put my hands on it every year, or even every two, but whenever I do, as now, I find its light has not diminished.

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