When I don’t believe in myself, I try to remember I have walked on water, like, seven-hundred times in Maine in the dead of winter. Where I come from, you can drive a pickup truck from one side of the lake to the other, and people have an unusually high quantity of missing teeth and fingers, but you can still count on them to buy whitening strips and wedding rings because where I come from beauty is in the eye of anyone who sees what’s missing but can’t stop pointing to what’s still there. If there’s no definition for love yet— I think that’s a good one. I’m writing you, Friend, on a day you
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