A WRITER'S WIT |
New Yorker Fiction 2017
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“At two in the morning, the library closed and I walked home through the fresh snow. The clouds had cleared, revealing the stars. Light from even a nearby star was four years old by the time it reached your eyes. Where would I be in four years? I thought about it for a long time, but somehow I couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t picture any part of it at all” (65).
Illustration by Stephen Doyle
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