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“So, the next morning, despite everything, I’m at his door. My father’s door. And then I am knocking. Waiting. It’s hard to head home without succumbing to nostalgia, standing where so many versions of yourself once stood, one of a suburb’s magical properties.” — Bryan Washington
So, the next morning, despite everything, I’m at his door.
My father’s door.
And then I am knocking. Waiting.
It’s hard to head home without succumbing to nostalgia, standing where so many versions of yourself once stood, one of a suburb’s magical properties.