Dear Anthony
because this is how we cross time and space
Dear Anthony
I heard you before I saw you. Friday morning, late February. One by one we gathered at Tin House—the real Tin House on NW Thurman Street in Portland, assembling for our ride to Sylvia Beach Hotel, venue for our winter workshop. I was searching for the toilet, I think, when your loud, hearty laughter reverberated within Tin House’s echoey wal…
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