The Wistful Grid
14 October 1998 I have counted the hours since the last time I slept, and the number is forty-two. It is a precise figure, recorded in the ledger I keep on the kitchen table, the same ledger where I track the price of coal and the interest on the mortgage, though the interest has long since been forgiven by the bank, a bureaucratic mercy that feels more like a debt than a gift. I am fifty-four...
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