Polished fools who project confidence can fool fools and—we only hope—only fools.
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So much can happen in fourteen years. Lives can change. Lives can end. A once-powerful body can deteriorate into a shadow of its former self. Middle age can transform into grizzled, grey efforts to cling to youth. Hope can slump into resignation. So many expectations can shatter as they confront reality.
But time is not entirely unpleasant. Experience can grow into wisdom. Fears can soften into concerns. There must be more.
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I once appreciated the bitterness of Campari. No longer. Adding more bitterness to an already ample supply is overkill. There must be a reason for the ability to detect bitterness, if for no other reason than to know when enough is too much.
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Three consecutive nights of odd, deeply worrying dreams in which my parents played a part—as if they were still alive—have left me wondering: why? The dreams involved radical changes to the street on which we lived. In one dream, the street led to a completely transformed bayfront. In another, the street led to acres and acres of miniature shops on the bayfront…sales stalls, actually…where Pakistani immigrants sold their colorful wares. I mistook the shopkeepers as Indian; when I apologized for my mistake, they were very gracious and forgiving. I behaved badly, criticizing housekeeping in a very unkind way, in the other dream. The dreams were long and complex; not suitable for a full telling of their stories here. My dreams do not interest other people but, despite the disinterest, I continue offering them as if the recipients of my tales will find them fascinating. Another flaw in need of correction.
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