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She seemed to show up to these events primarily to drink deeply of the unfolding scene and its improbable people and its hyperbolic talk and then retreat to her own inner world, as if the whole thing was an exercise in reconnaissance.
In the middle of October, in Maine, midafternoon feels like early evening; you can tell the sun is leaving you. The angles and registers of light feel like they’re escaping, running away.
Fear of my excellence, fear of his own obsolescence is breaking him down.
