I’ve been trying to figure out how best to tell the story of how Valentýn came back.
Normally, I take the raw material of my life and turn it into a narrative. I don’t see the point, or the artistry, in simply writing everything down that happens to me. If it doesn’t have a beginning, middle and an end — or more importantly, an emotional point — I usually don’t bother.
Maybe I haven’t . . .
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