Somewhere at the end of this half smoked cigarette, there is a sentence waiting. It will contain all the right quotes and statistics, all the histories and traumas. I will let it speak and then I will be silent.
It will give you numbers. It will stitch pictures to each of these number. And you will be pursued into sleep with the stories of each of them. I want you to know their favorite colors, what they were like when they acted silly or couldn’t sleep or got excited. This sentence will reveal it all.
It will place you in the living rooms of nervous mothers waiting to hear back from daughters and sons who still haven’t returned from a protest. It will slam you against the back of a military jeep and call you a whore in a language you never wanted to learn. You will feel choked with…
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