I found a home in the dirt.
In the seedy underbelly, in the unfriendly New Yorker, in the disgusting words of my favorite writers' descriptions of that which we as people try to hide. Therein I found my nook, where I could feel like someone had seen the world for its true colors and not hid it, not polished it. How much safer I feel, comforted in that truth has been restored. It isn't pretty, but neither are we.
We are real.
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