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“Do you ever dream about being back home?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Do you?”


“Yeah. Sometimes.”


“I mean, yeah, I dream about home sometimes too.”

“Sometimes I dream that I’m walking down the boardwalk barefoot and I wake up thinking I’ll find splinters in my feet. Really, I do. I don’t know why but whenever I dream about the boardwalk—in the summer, you know, with tourist kids holding stuffed animals and French fries spilled on the ground—I feel young.”

“We are young!”

“I feel younger, I mean.”

“Do you remember the no-name grave?”

“The… oh, Jesus, yeah. Wow. I haven’t thought about that in years.”

“What was the epithet, exactly?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yes you do. You remember all this stuff.”

“It was… something about no one remembering the guy’s name. Like whoever carved the headstone didn’t even know what name to put. But no, wait, that wasn’t it… no, it was more like the guy didn’t want his name on his own headstone. How did it go? ‘No name, because they wouldn’t remember me anyway’?”

“Yeah, yeah, that was it. Wild, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Sometimes I think about how I’ll never live there again—how I’ll visit but never wake up feeling like Cook Street is the edge of the universe, believing the city limits hold the whole world and then some—and I can’t help it. I feel like a fucking kid and I have to stuff my fist in my mouth so I won’t wake up my neighbors. Sometimes, I break the skin.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sometimes.”

Created: Aug 17, 2012


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