Ishmael had his sea. I have Eliot’s Flea Market. It’s where I go whenever the otherwise dull and careless melody of my life turns dark and sad. Which is to say: whenever I find myself studying my reflection in store windows or my shadow in puddles. Or when some undercurrent from some half-opened window somewhere makes me shiver with a quiet melancholy. It’s my way of fleeing that disagreeable draft. Of finding fragments to shore against my ruins.
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"Classic"
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