I want to hear stories that embarrass because they are undeniable, stories that only old friends can tell because only they know them. There is little continuity between my present and my past, self inflicted for sure, but still troubling when I dwell on it.

Ask anyone who knows me, who spends time with me, what I was like in my youth.

They couldn’t know. To them I didn’t exist more than ten years ago.

Ask any of my friends from my past, who I grew up with, what I am like today.

They won’t know.

I have disconnected.

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