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  • For many months of my early twenties, I wrote late night journals from the dark of my Atlanta porch, trying to find inspiration without drawing light. And in that solitude -- a green plastic chair, overlooking abandoned train tracks -- I saw life more clearly, humble and broken, in insignificant moments.

    Most are insignificant moments. Clicking computer screens or hearing a bird; parking a car or snoozing alarms. These insignificants fill our momentous until all we talk about is things that none of us regard.

    And here I am, in my late twenties, in the dark on another porch in France. Couples walk below me, speaking perfect French. They whistle and run, some hand-in-hand, wandering above what below cannot land.
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