I'm trying to write but the city won't stop talking. Only by going outside can I make the inside quiet.
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The Mathematician and I seek solace in the space of late evening. A meditation on movement and being.
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A river walk, a drink, and a donkey wrangler. Nothing's off the table in Leipzig's wild west.
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The Party finally arrives, the parties arrive, and we party. Also: walking, talking, weather, and weeds.
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We arrive in Portsmouth, England's moist and miniature city. The sky is big, the houses small, and all the pebbles, shiny.
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The Orne, the organ, and the orchestra of birds. And who sliced that house in half? Our journey west continues, with coffee to spare.
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