Our memories are ghosts, our minds haunted houses. I stalk around mine every night, smoking cigarettes and pontificating, talking with my hands to the walls, stepping gingerly around the rooms that I’ve lived in, the girls I’ve loved, the girl I love, the people I’ve hurt. I have conversations with Mr. Murphy about the books that he told me to read. Last night I dreamed of my best friend from 8th grade, Rian. The last time I saw him he was bleeding onto my back porch and had a concussion. I step outside and it’s the beach the sun blinding
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