I was twenty-six when I learned that the world was ending, and the first thing I did was buy a ticket to Long Island.
The document had come to me in a plain brown envelope, no return address, delivered by a boy who refused to make eye contact. I was living in a walk-up on West Eighty-Sixth Street, subsisting on gin, typewriter ribbons, and the occasional advance from a magazine that published poetry nobody read. My name is Jay Frost, and until that Tuesday in March of 1925, I believed the most important thing...
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