Memories are made of knits
December 31st 2008 Seven hours on a cross-country bus, curled up contortionist-like in a dank, humid compartment with the window as company was enough for me to realise that I was now travelling on my own. Sharing a space is not always sharing an experience. The person at your side may brush off you in absent-minded intimacy, but you're miles back down the road. Or up ahead. Or you've already crossed into an
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