You know I don’t bullshit, honey, not to anyone, certainly not to you. Only to yourself, I say, and slump back in the passenger seat. I expect her to say excuse me, miss in that tone, that awful tone, but she is thoughtfully silent for a few moments before she says, As we all do, Ezri. Baby, you’re wise beyond your years. A brilliant, fierce thinker. But don’t let that fool you into thinking that you know the truth of things. You don’t even know if your poem is good or not. I think it’s good. Do you? Where does it fall short in your eyes? Or do you not even know? Are you simply desperate for
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