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Small stories

A concert in Iceland.

I started writing again today .

“Maybe I can’t see the big picture and maybe that’s okay; the world doesn’t occur for me that way. I see it all through a maze of details: two rusty wrenches to weight a jigging line, a Q-tip carving lines through a drum dancer’s make-up, the slurping of a hunter as he dines on whale meat, the slap of maqtaaq when it hits the cardboard-covered floor, a kitten’s pinpoint teeth digging into my socks, the flashes of golden glitter above a wild crowd that sings into the night. They are small stories, and that’s why I love them. Small things bind us together in a way the big stuff cannot. And it’s all so easy to miss.”

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