Tabs Open #30: You See This Train Wreck Coming Right In Front Of You
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Somewhere in the array of possible universes there is an older me who lives in a cabin in the woods somewhere, let’s say Montana. The cabin backs up onto a river—not too wide, or too fast, but the kind of lesser-known slow and steady one that the West has plenty of. In the mornings I sit out on the deck smelling the pines and drinking coffee; in the evenings I watch the crows come in from the same chair with whiskey instead. During the day I cut wood and I write and walk through the forest. My wife is with me, or my dog, or both. (The wife exists in the known universe already, the dog does not.) We look for signs of the planet repairing itself, and when we need repairing, we go see the doctor for whatever it is we need and we don’t pay a cent.
Tabs Open #30: You See This Train Wreck Coming Right In Front Of You
Tabs Open #30: You See This Train Wreck…
Tabs Open #30: You See This Train Wreck Coming Right In Front Of You
Somewhere in the array of possible universes there is an older me who lives in a cabin in the woods somewhere, let’s say Montana. The cabin backs up onto a river—not too wide, or too fast, but the kind of lesser-known slow and steady one that the West has plenty of. In the mornings I sit out on the deck smelling the pines and drinking coffee; in the evenings I watch the crows come in from the same chair with whiskey instead. During the day I cut wood and I write and walk through the forest. My wife is with me, or my dog, or both. (The wife exists in the known universe already, the dog does not.) We look for signs of the planet repairing itself, and when we need repairing, we go see the doctor for whatever it is we need and we don’t pay a cent.