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March 25, 2016
It's all fiction until someone real comes along. But who's to say this isn't a lie, too? That's what she likes about stories, you can make up anything and have it be real according to how you tell it and who believes it. Wrong, you'd say, everything you say is wrong. Maybe so, I'd reply. And then proceed to make up other stories. There's a boy in my street who just turned three, he likes cats, grey cats, to be exact. He whistles Happy Birthday every morning. He can recite some Neruda poems. Did I say he's three? I did.