Alarmed by the sight or sound of my approach, a seagull rises in a white flurry from the blacktop with a series of heartrending shrieks, a vocabulary too few of us understand, such a waste of wisdom, leaving pseudo philosophies well entrenched, my own mother, for example, who would excuse beatings with the words “better you cry now than I cry later,” who also said with obvious conviction “nothing’s as good as a good pair of scissors” but only ever had a dull rusty pair in the house.
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