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glimpse

A girl in her late teens looks into her closet, which seems to hold no less than a hundred outfits. "I have nothing to wear!" Mom stands in the corner of the room. "I wish I was dead. I wish you were dead."

The girl standing at the ironing board unplugs the iron and throws it at Mom, just missing. Mom lunges at her screaming "I hate you, I hate you!"

For a ten-year-old, impressions like these form memories not easily forgotten. Further down the road, long gone moments like these surface yet again craving clarity.


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