Charles--gray shirt and slacks and ashen hair--sat, for three days, three-thousand miles, back like a board, memorizing the landscape ahead. Forty years my senior, he wrote me shaky letters, enclosing trinkets like bracelets and keychains.
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.
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