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Salt shadows

Snow day (Ftrain.com):

“I can still taste Brooklyn,” I said. Mo laughed, remembering the look of disgust as I tried to dig the snow out of my mouth with my fingers, and I thought: that laugh will only mean sadness when I am dead, which, given the mood I am in and the unkempt quality of my hair, will be very soon. Those sudden melodramatic thoughts come at the end of happy sentences, like deformed punctuation marks. We're teasing the cat with a string, laughing along, and I think, all of this will be gray ashes, or cancer lurks unbidden and inevitable. (My father used to say, “laughing ends up in crying,” but he didn't mean this. He meant, take that lit firecracker out of your ear, funny guy.)
Paul Ford is still there, still writing, and you should be reading him. This piece was sad, a little self-conscious, and all the more charming for it.

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