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Who are we, that we could be without the memories and images, those good times we hunt and chase always trying, never able to recapture? We haunt a myth of ourselves, whether the corner bar or fantasy corners of childhood . . . Summers spent at cottages and cabins, burrowing through attics and ancestral chests, . . . the farm, the beaches, schools, and yards, the streets we cruised on Friday night. Our umbilicals remain unsevered. We never really leave behind |
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