It's the first day of summer, and after 11pm, I remembered my intent and I wondered if I had committed myself to a summer of deflation, of over-obligation. No. In my hotel room was a suitcase full of clothes, books, and scant electronics. On my bed, the New York Times, flung aside since it seemed gloomier than usual. I decided to manufacture my own headlines. I called the front desk for tape and scissors, which never came, so I ripped and arranged and tucked away.
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