My
professors loved me. Enclosed. Encompassed. With noses. The toes,
fluffing them through the pile, the camel hair, the wool, the
collectible Middle Eastern carpet. Snob. Hand-woven ethnics, the
others, packaged, washing dishes. Language barriers. They come in,
asking for something tight around the waist, high in the back, made
of imported cotton. You really ought to avoid chewing gum while
reading Ayn Rand. It looks shitty.

Mira Martin-Parker
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