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March 8 - March 8, 2024
“Boys like us always know one another about a thousand years before anyone else knows us, don’t we?”
I was a brown boy in a borrowed cottage, flanked by millionaires. Dechert had nothing to fear from any complaint I could make.
Even if los santos descended from heaven and blessed me loving another boy, that boy could not be Gatsby.
Some people wore their broken hearts with careful grace. I didn’t. The pieces of mine scraped against everything, and everyone could hear the grinding noise, even if they didn’t know what it was.

