I find myself telescoping outward as I sometimes do in strange places or circumstances. I’m sitting on a stool in a box in a clay hut in a village on an island in the middle of the ocean between two continents on the planet Earth. It sounds kind of unlikely, and yet here I am. I think of other places that sounded impossible to be until I was there, like the top of the Duomo in Florence or a bar on stilts off the Bahamian coast. Or the tiny French restaurant in the back of Pike Place Market where John and I ate moules frites and watched bald eagles acting all casual above Elliott Bay. In each
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