The sun also rises, wrote Hemingway. He was proud enough of this phrase to choose it for the title of a classic that I haven't read. I don't know why I haven't done so yet. Everything keeps getting in the way.
It all seemed so simple. I would balance logic with wonder, statistics with imagination, cold policy with the love boiling out of my words. I would catch up with my life tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. And then that word blurred into a month, two months, and now, as the sun rises, I am writing to make sense of it all.
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