To stunt on those you live in close proximity to is also a type of intimacy. It requires a level of knowing—I know the heights that you cannot reach, the ones that I can barely ascend to, but can still ascend to, at least today. And I love you for your limits, I love all of us for what we do and don’t have in this beautifully unbearable container of heat, of sirens, of bike chains popping and black sneakers that have seen better days. The borders between the stunt and being stunted on are flimsy when the come-up happens in small, barely noticeable increments, until it doesn’t. I love the
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