pencil

 

When I was fifteen, I wanted to be a man of few words, to be small and muscular with fine bones, to play slide guitar like Elmor James.  I wanted to be fearless.  I am thirty seven.  The page is white and cool to touch.  My hands smell of lemons.  I still cling to impossible wishes.  There is still time.

 

MICHAEL IGNATIEFF

AUGUST IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE.

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