The Memory of Flight
When I met Camille B., she was no longer able to fly. She stood atop the damp coffee house, the tips of her red sneakers just over the edge so that she could bend her toes into the void below.
When I met Camille B., she was no longer able to fly. She stood atop the damp coffee house, the tips of her red sneakers just over the edge so that she could bend her toes into the void below.
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