Ten.One Thousand, Three Hundred & Twenty
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An unfamiliar sound.
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Already dreaming about the first cup of decaf.
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At the end of the meditation, she asks you to set an intention for the day. I want a day of quiet ease.
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Man. This decaf tastes so good.
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Orange-gold sun reflecting off the windows.
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The young man isn’t there. I want him to be there, but he isn’t. I check again on my way back from the library. I must have missed him today. Maybe next time.
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Her face. Her dimples. Her glasses. The real talk. Having those in your circle who are not afraid to ask questions and are okay with not having any answers.
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The change is coming. I can feel it.
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It is three hours out of our day, but their hair cuts are fire.
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I tell her that my tolerance for bullshit just keeps getting lower and lower.
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“But I am also worried about being perceived as a quitter,” they write. “That’s just white supremacy.”