June 23, 2018

“If I called the milk man, he dropped his telephone in a glass of salt water. If I sent him letters, he burned them, then snorted the ash. He made me wait for him, hours and days, until I grew dusty in my most important parts and believed they might crumble away. Then he returned, did what he wanted, took his milk crates and ran away. I saved a few—one or two—put them in storage, so that I would always have a reason for him to come back. I have your crates, I might have said. And then, there he would be, ready to retrieve…”

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