Marguerite Duras said that writing comes like the wind, and that it is made of ink. If that were true, I would want to be an old and wrinkly person going out in the wind and making the most excellent designs with my face. The windier the day, the more wrinkly I am, the more excellent my face would be, and the more writing you would find about it, while all the while newspapers are blowing down the street and helping little hats dance away like notions and jiggers to new places under cars and over marquees and hot dog stands and brains.
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