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100×3: Want

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Today all the extra work I did in February furnished my house. I did my usual — days of extensive research, followed by losing my patience and buying everything in one shop just to get it over with.

I forgot about delivery times, though, so my new throw pillows and I will be eating off our laps for another couple of weeks anyway.

Picture.

photo 1

Gimme-your-steak face.

Words.

More pirates. I don’t know that I’ve nailed this yet, but it’s the closest I’ve ever been to pinning down how it felt, to me, to be a teenager. YMMV.


 

She wanted everything else. Anything else. This swell in her gut — the tidal reach and tug of want — was formless and nameless but vast, and when it came it felt bigger than her insides, like the edges of it were pushing against the people around her, leaking over the sides of this boat and this ocean. Sailor couldn’t understand how it could be invisible; how Tarq or her father or Fig could look at her and speak to her and not see that she was a yawning, gulping spout of sucking need, and she was starving.

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Writer of things. Annoyer of cats.

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