I’m sitting on my couch, just finishing up this book I need to write a marketing plan for, my window open just a few inches to keep the air flowing. Not enough for any real breeze to interrupt my surroundings.
Do Everything in the Dark, aptly titled, follows a group of artists and their downward spiral. The page I marked with the photograph describes an old snapshot. The last lines struck me: I don’t mind sifting through Jesse’s treasures. But I wish he’d throw them out. Whoever said the past is another country didn’t know the half of it.
I suppose it’s true for some–the past is another country. Though I…
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