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[I]t is things that make us happy when conversation begins to reveal itself as a paltry substitute
Rick Moody
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What was boring was somehow more elegant, more perfect, for it was incontrovertible. The boring was everything that certainly was. The boring was everything that had stood the test of time. The boring was that set of truths that were so long fixed that erosion had begun to sand them down. The boring was geological; the boring was universal. The boring, therefore, was preferable
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There were just enough flaws to make her perfect
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