(Even as I beckon, the stories scatter. Instead, paper trails me. Post-its scribbled with first sentences or phrases, lovingly stringed syllables like a necklace of pearls to warm with skin - these I leave absentmindedly in coffeeshop newspapers or in the top drawers of other people's desks. When I find them at the bottom of my suitcase, I stare quizzically at the somewhat unfamiliar handwriting, notes to a self that has no time or place to write anything complete and bound.)

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