Gian
My 5323-word essay on Giancarlo DiTrapano (1974-2021).
This essay first appeared in Granta in spring 2025.
Gian
You were born in West Virginia in 1974. I was born in Virginia in 1983. You went to college in New Orleans, earning a degree in philosophy. I grew up in Central Florida. We both moved to New York City in 2001.
In 2005, I saw an ad in The Paris Review for a new magazine called New York Tyrant. The ad said “submit” in large lowercase font; in place of the letter “i” was a drawing of the backside of a naked obese man wielding a sword. I sent a story to submissions@nytyrant.com.
Seven months later, I got an email thanking me. “After due consideration, however, we have come to the unfortunate conclusion that your story is not a good fit for our publication. Rejection is never a happy occasion, but rest assured that the anger and disappointment now stirring deep within your heart will only lead to greater things.”
“I hate you,” I replied. “No, just kidding. Thanks for the note.” I submitted another story and withdrew it when it was accepted elsewhere. “Damn,” someone replied. “This is a good fucking story. Have anything else?” I submitted another, withdrew it a month later, and got this response: “Damn it, man. Give us a fucking chance.”
“Dear Tao,” you emailed two weeks later. “Was at KGB the other night but had to leave before you read.” You asked me to send something for your magazine’s second issue. “Your first two submissions got yanked so fast, we couldn’t do anything for you. But we love your shit, so please resubmit. yours, GianCarlo.”
I submitted a story and withdrew it a week later. I sent a fifth story, which elicited no response, and six months later I sent another, which you rejected eight months later in 2007: “Hello. We’re gonna pass on this one, though. Thanks though.” You signed the email “Giancarlo”—lowercase c—and didn’t ask me to submit again.
In 2009, you founded Tyrant Books to publish a novella by Brian Evenson, who’d sent it to you after getting two emails in a row from people surnamed Brown—one being your assistant—while working at Brown University. “I act on things like that,” said Evenson in an interview.
Like Evenson, you paid attention to what you called “things that appear in strange ways.” The name New York Tyrant came to you in a dream. Later, you noticed “the letters TRN found in the word TyRaNt can also be found in that order in my last name diTRapaNo,” as you explained in an interview.
Evenson’s novella was published in November. In December, you emailed to say you’d started writing for Vice and to ask for a review copy of my recently published novella. The email was signed “Gian.”
“Happy Birthday, Tao,” you emailed in July 2010. “I won’t say to have a great day, because that’s so hard sometimes. So have a good day.”
I thanked you, and you asked if I knew a doctor who’d prescribe Adderall, which you’d noticed me mentioning online. I gave you my phone number. We began texting.
We met in person a month later, outside NYU’s Bobst Library, where I worked on my writing each day. I traded you Adderall for Percocet.
“How many of these should I take?” you texted when I was back in the library, seated at a computer.
“I’m good with half of one but I weigh 125 so maybe just one whole one. Open it and pour the little balls into your mouth.”
“Ooh fun. Thanks, Tao.”
The next night, we met at a reading in a room above a bar. I sat in the back, across from you. You slid your phone across the table.
“hi tao,” it said. I typed a reply and slid it back. “sip,” you saw. I’d mistyped “sup,” or it had been autocorrected.
The next day, you texted, “It was great hanging out with you last night. Still can’t believe I lost those fucking pills.”
“I had fun. We should do it again some time.”
“sip,” you replied.
“Heh.”
You emailed me instructions on how to get painkillers from Dr. Zhao: “Go in and be like, ‘I got in a car crash when I was 13 and I have back pains. I need a prescription of: if you ask for oxys, It’s what I take and I’ve just moved to town.’” Ten sentences later: “Anyway, good luck. This is like Lord of the Rings. I’m like a troll leading you to the gold. (Oh yeah, this troll charges a finders fee of five pills from your first prescription.)”
I went to Chinatown, learned Dr. Zhao wasn’t accepting new patients, bought three coconuts, drank the water, and returned to the library.
In August, we met at a bar in the East Village. You gave me five oxycodone tablets, and I gave you a hundred dollars.
Walking back to the library, I felt a pang of disappointment. “Hey,” I texted you. “4 of these are blue with cursive Vs on them.”
You replied, “I know. They look different but they are all oxy 30s. Trust.” And I trusted you again.
A week later, I texted asking how you were doing.
“Good, I guess. I’m always bored. Even with drugs.”
“Damn. Do you have an LSD contact? That might help (also if you do I’m ‘in the market’ for some, hehe).”
“No, but I can ask around. I love it if it’s pure LSD-25. Might know someone with mushrooms.”
In September, Vice published your review of my second novel. “I never fucking liked Tao Lin,” it began. “I’d probably have liked his books more, given them their fighting chance, if he and his books hadn’t been constantly shoved down my throat every day of the week for the past few years.” The anti-me rant continued at length, then: “But something must have happened to me, or to Tao Lin, or to the both of us, because I’ve been swayed. I kind of fucking love this guy now.”
We were texting regularly by then, mostly about drugs. I’d started using recreational pharmaceutical drugs the previous year. They allowed me to become a dramatically different person—calm, unworried, uninhibited, social—for hours at a time.
I don’t know when your drug use began. Your cluster headaches, which started at sixteen, seem to have been a factor. “In efforts to deal with this pain, I’ve orally ingested, injected, snorted and/or smoked oxycodone, hydrocodone, fentanyl, demerol, dilaudid, cocaine, heroin, codeine, morphine, and more,” you’d write in a 2016 article.
You introduced me to your dealer. I emailed and texted you questions like, “Any parties or want to sell oxys to me?” and “Any chance of me getting more MDMA tonight?” You asked me questions like “Where can I charge my iPhone in soho?” and “Know of any parties tonight?”
We saw each other at literary events and small gatherings. You looked deeply stoned, with a dispassionate gaze. Sometimes you smiled and grinned a lot; other times you seemed somewhat depressed. Like me, you were shyer in person than online.
You texted, “I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day to you and Megan!” Then: “Don’t know why I said I love you. I do, but like I’m kind of fucked up.” Two weeks later, I texted, “Felt an urge to txt you ‘I love you’ & on only little Xanax and Vyvanse.” You replied, “I love you same.”
We had many ideas. Drug corporations, we thought, should sponsor the literary world—PEN/Oxy Award, National Xanax Book Prize. You said Vice TV should send us to South America to drink ayahuasca. You emailed:
I was scrolling through the last year of our drug-addled text messages. Some funny stuff in there. Could be an “epic” Vice post someday.
I said our texts were positive and considerate. You said we were “really polite and nice.” I said someone could “build a sitcom” out of our messages. You said, “The dialogue is perfect because it’s actually real.” You typed our messages into a document, and I created a collage of us looking at our phones.
Vice published our texts from July 2010 to June 2011, which you titled “‘Andrew’: A Dialogue of Texts in the Year of Drugs and Kindness” after our dealer and the main topic and tone of our messages. After you died in 2021, I would learn that some-to-many of your friendships featured taunting and insults; we never had that.
I felt compelled to publish our unseemly, worrying texts, in which we discussed buying, selling, and using a variety of illegal drugs, because I had no family in the U.S. except my brother, with whom I wasn’t close; I also wasn’t close to my parents, who lived in Taiwan; and I delighted and specialized in creating art from life.
As an independent publisher, freelance journalist, and occasional memoirist, you also didn’t feel the need to censor yourself, and you seemed unconcerned with your family learning about your drug-heavy lifestyle. “I like my life to be an open book,” you said in an interview. Asked if you’d ever write a novel: “I feel like my life is my book.”
In 2012, you texted that your new dealer had asked you about books. I joked that he wanted to be in our next “year of texts,” and you replied, “Lol totally. He wants the fame.”
“We should start our own drug dealing thing next year,” I suggested.
“Publish books from profits, like lit gangsters.”
“Get writing residencies at Yaddo and use the time to figure out how to make our own MDMA.”
“Show up to Yaddo with a truckload of chemicals and hazmat suits. ‘We’ll need our food delivered once a day, and no interruptions please.’”
In March, you texted, “We need to hang more. I feel like you’re like my best friend but I never see you URL / irl / I never see you URL lol.”
“Lol’d and tasted metal in my mouth,” I replied. I’d been spending most of my time alone, working on my third novel, documenting my descent into my ongoing, increasingly troubling drug addiction.
In June, you emailed:
Supposed to fly to Italy tomorrow to see my dad because he’s sick but am in the middle of a cluster headache season so I could get into trouble over there without my neurologist. I ‘loaded up’ on $1,500.00 of Imitrex shots and Stadol (nasal spray morphine, will save some to ‘party’ with you) yesterday to try and deal with them myself over there.
Back in New York, you emailed that you’d gotten “nerve blockers” injected in your head and had been “headache free for like 20 hours.” I said time had started to move “way faster” for me in recent years and asked if you’d noticed something similar.
Yes, in my late twenties is when it really started flying. A year is like nothing now. It used to seem like a lifetime. Also, there was like a four-year period where I did nothing but party and I don’t remember anything from that time. Maybe a couple of monumental moments, but mostly a blur of watching the sunrise every morning. I don’t mind time flying though. I feel like I’ve done everything I want to do in life.
You hadn’t had alcohol in two months because it triggered headaches. You’d been taking Suboxone, a drug used for treating opiate addiction. “I can like get work done, feel good, sleep good, and I haven’t been depressed or anything,” you wrote.
Later in the same email, you wrote, “Oh yeah, I smoke weed all day, every day, but I have done that my entire life it seems,” which I hadn’t known. We’d never discussed cannabis, which I didn’t yet enjoy.
On my 29th birthday, you sent me a song you’d composed on piano. You had hundreds of them. “I have to record them to remember them,” you said. “Otherwise they disappear.” You sent another.
I said it sounded like the soundtrack to Gattaca, one of my favorite movies—about a sickly man who defies expectations—and you said, “I fucking love that movie.”
Vice published another year of our texts, including the text where you said you felt like I was your best friend. Soon after, at a bar, you introduced me to a man. I remember him and/or you seeming kind of sheepish as one of you said he was your best friend.
Discussing the texts by email, you wrote, “Would be sweet if one of us died and then the one remaining (hopefully you) would just do one of lonely unreplied-to texts to no one.”
I said the last text would be “are you there?” and that if we both died the post could have an epilogue of texts by two other people saying “did u hear gian and tao both died?” and “yeah lol.”
“‘yeah lol,’” you replied. “laughing.”
Besides texting each other around a thousand times in 2011, 2012, and 2013, we also emailed that many times during those years (when our communications plateaued), usually about literature—we wrote for the same magazines, both ran small presses, and published some of the same writers—but also about other things.
I sent you a mattress recommendation. You sent me a link to a head-enclosing pillow. I sent you comically bleak excerpts from a John Cheever biography. You sent me a video of a person smoking Salvia divinorum. I sent you a song titled “Kids of the K-Hole.” You sent me your song “ketamine concerto.” I sent you a video of me smoking cannabis out of an eggplant with your song as the soundtrack.
You invited me again to submit to New York Tyrant, which you were considering ending—it was a “moneysuck” that no longer “excited” you—to focus on books. You’d published four so far: the novella, a book of drawings, and two novels. I submitted an excerpt of my third novel and you published it in your magazine’s tenth and last issue.
You told me about your skin. “I suffered from horrible, grotesque, not-ever-wanting-to-leave-the-house-and-see-anyone acne all through high school and some of college and afterward.” You’d taken a “hardcore acne medicine that apparently causes suicides,” but you suspected the suicides were caused by the acne.
In October, I told you I was worried because I kept extending an in-progress drug binge, and you replied:
I get in that postponing the end of binges too. Man, I think I’m really fucked up maybe. Whenever I like don’t do painkillers for more than a week I have these vomiting attacks. And only eating painkillers helps me feel better. It’s like not even my mind but my body that keeps “forcing” me to do drugs. I think I’ve ruined my stomach with drugs. Oh well. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
Hurricane Sandy arrived a week later, resulting in blackouts, looting, and thousands of downed trees. Sandy and the 2012 doomsday meme that claimed the world would transform or end in December encouraged us and our friends to binge on drugs, including one night at your Hell’s Kitchen apartment on the West Side.
This was the only time I went in your home. Low-lit and cramped, it was filled with boxes of books and your piano. You had a small backyard with a firepit. Five or six of us sat around the fire talking.
Two weeks later, you came to my apartment to interview me. During our conversation, you said, “I feel like a lot of my attraction towards like fat guys or whatever comes from some kind of sympathy.” You elaborated:
I feel like there’s some kind of endearing quality in the fact that they’ve put up with a lot of shit for their entire lives and for some reason that makes me love them or something. I don’t know. It’s really weird that it manifests itself through sex.
In a 2010 essay about A Confederacy of Dunces, which your dad gave you when you were twenty-one, you wrote that you “fell hard” for the novel’s protagonist, Ignatius, a “waddling, unkempt mammoth toddler.”
Until then, I’d always thought of myself as straight. I walked straight and I talked straight. I dated girls, I slept with girls, when I jacked off, I jacked off to girls.
You quoted a scene in which Ignatius masturbates in his room, climaxing after his childhood dog appears unbidden in his mind, jumping over a fence. “This is the page where I went fag,” you wrote. “The solitude and isolation, the very sadness of it all, didn’t turn me off—on the contrary, it was the hook. Sex scenes had always been filled with gorgeous people. Ignatius wasn’t gorgeous. But he was sexual.”
Your mom didn’t believe you when you said you were gay. She “came around,” but at first “it blew her mind, and she was kind of not into it,” you said on a podcast. Your dad, who was “more worldly,” a fan of Oscar Wilde, was supportive from the start.
I sent you a link to my favorite song by the band Swearin’, titled “Fat Chance,” and said it made me feel “deep empathy,” and you replied, “What a great song. There should be like a fat music genre.”
You gifted me an action figure of a masked, big-bellied man in a yellow jumpsuit. This figure represented you, I’d realize two years after your death, seeing a drawing of it on your Instagram with the caption “Me irl.”
In August 2013, seated on my bed peaking on psilocybin at three a.m., I sobbed from gratitude that I finally felt empowered enough to end my addiction. I’d wanted to do this for more than two years.
Later in the trip, I texted you saying an alien was using my body to learn about “this thing we’ve got set up: family.” You replied, “You don’t think they have families?” I laughed and called you.
I rarely called anyone. Your voice seemed to come from inside my head. Later, you told me you could understand what I felt because you’d begun using psilocybin for your cluster headaches.
In your 2016 article, you wrote that nothing had provided “even a 100th of the relief that psychedelics have,” and that you’d been pain-free for three years because of them: “Unless you suffer yourself, you have no idea just how beautiful that actually is.”
Later in August, I praised your profile of Junot Díaz in Playboy. You said your dad had read it and emailed you, “I am so proud of you I am about to burst. I’m telling all of my friends about my brilliant son.” You wrote, “The email made me instantly cry.”
That fall and winter, I used cannabis to buffer the dysphoria and other withdrawal symptoms from ending four years of pharmaceutical drugs. I distanced myself from friends who remained mired in addiction, but we kept talking, in part because of our shared interest in psychedelics.
In 2014, you encouraged me to pitch a column on Terence McKenna, an optimistic psychonaut I’d gotten obsessed with, to our editor at Vice. I thanked you for your encouragement, and you said, “It was an encouragement of a selfish nature because I want to read that shit.”
One day I emailed you, “I can hear so much shit going on in apartments around mine when I’m very stoned. I hear someone talking to his dog and I’ve never heard anyone talking to their dog and I like never hear a dog. I hear like 5 dogs right now.”
You said you could hear someone above your apartment who played your songs on his piano. “Like he heard me and then learned them and played them and I could hear it. Sometimes we would play at the same time and kind of play to each other I felt.”
We emailed about our identities. “I wish Asians did more for me, they don’t do shit for me,” I wrote wryly. “Totally,” you replied.
I wish gays did more for me. I feel like I don’t reap enough minority benefits from being gay. Maybe if I added it to my twitter bio. But I guess if anyone ever attacks me (in writing or irl) I can always say that they are a homophobe or scream ‘I’m being hatecrimed!!’ Really need to exploit this minority position in society. Gays just don’t like me, I think. I only have one gay friend (Mark Doten) and the gay community has always treated me weirdly. Like just because I have none of the stereotypes, they don’t feel like I am truly ‘one of them’ but I guess they are right. I don’t feel like one of them.
I replied, “Felt strong connection with you on this, replacing gay with Asian.” Other East Asian-Americans seemed to readily form friend groups; I tended to drift toward alienated individuals.
“I’m extremely stoned,” I emailed you one night. “I just started daydreaming and thinking of how productive we’re being during these past few years and how it’ll be interesting to look back on things in like 10 years, in terms of literature. Made it feel fun to keep going and see what happens,” and you replied, “Totally totally totally, all counts.”
“I did some h last night and I fell asleep standing up in my bathroom for 4 hours,” you emailed one afternoon. You seemed to have snorted or ingested heroin irregularly; once, when I said I was buying it, you said you hadn’t done it in years. “I slept, standing straight up, for four fucking hours. I woke up mid fall face first into shower curtain and bathtub. Wish I could have that on video somehow.”
In 2015, you emailed that you’d been eating “a large nibble” of psilocybin mushroom every four days. When you felt headaches coming on, you ate a larger dose, successfully preventing them. “It’s so amazing. It’s like the only thing in life that I feel like being political or an activist for. Gonna freakin’ march on Washington or some shit lol.”
You sent me a link to the post of our second year of texts and said, “Rereading this, dying laughing. Feel like it didn’t get the accolades it deserved.” I liked that you revisited our projects, folding time over itself, stretching it, slowing it. I did this too.
While visiting my parents in Taipei, I emailed you, “Been alternating days of weed capsules and days of LSD while in Taiwan.”
You said you were “inundated with powders” in the city. “There is always some kind of powder around to sniff.”
You’d gone to Italy recently. “I think I fell in love. I mean, I did fall in love, but I can’t tell if it was just for four days or if it is still happening to me.”
Your grandfather emigrated to the U.S. in the early 1900s. My parents arrived in the 1970s. You were the youngest of five. I was the youngest of two. As children, we regularly visited our ancestral homelands.
“Falling in love, that seems good. There are pros and cons. I would say more pros. Who is the person?”
“This guy I met in a train station in Campoleone, IT. Soon as we met he took me to have dinner at his mom’s lol.” You added, “I feel like I’m halfway creating all this in my head. Oh well.”
A month later, in 2016, you emailed, “Went back to Italy and I am in love. Breaking up with Chris and moving to Italy in April to live with this guy. Crazy.” In an interview later that year, you said you “used to do a ton of drugs” and that you felt healthier, happier, and “more at home” in Italy.
I also wanted to leave New York City, but I stayed to draft a book on psychedelics—an expansion of my McKenna column—and because I also fell in love.
In 2018, you emailed, “Remember the doctor I went to and tried to get him to see you?” with a link to an article titled “Doctor made $1M selling Xanax before bust: cops.”
You invited me to Italy. You and your new husband lived in Rome. You’d started a writers’ workshop called Mors Tua Vita Mea (“Your Death, My Life”) at a family villa.
That August, you moved to the countryside, and I finally left the city, living upstate and in rural New Jersey. My girlfriend visited from Manhattan on weekends.
In late 2019, I visited my parents in Taipei for six weeks, then went to Honolulu to house-sit for my mom’s friend.
In 2020, when lockdowns began in the U.S., Italy, and elsewhere, I was still in Hawaii. I’d decided to stay. Alone in an Airbnb one night, I messaged you on Twitter (I’d replaced my smartphone with a flip phone and stopped texting) a link to a book titled SIP and said, “it’s our book.”
“lmao NICE,” you replied. It was March 29 in Hawaii, but in New York the date was March 30, exactly one year before your death. You wrote:
Chapter One. The event was crowded, but at least he had drugs. ‘I’ll never find a place to sit to listen to this boring shit,’ Tao thought just as he saw someone stand from their seat and walk towards the bar. He scurried over to the bench and sat down, filled with the small joy of not having to stand for an hour. Tao was blankly staring at the glass table at his knees when a cell phone appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, on the table before him. The screen was illuminated and open to the Notes app. One word, three letters: sip. What could it mean?
In my memory of that night in 2010, it was me who typed “sip,” but now, after reading your message, I wasn’t sure. I replied:
Gian made his way to the back of the reading, choosing a seat at a table where he couldn’t see the readers and wasn’t facing the stage. He noticed a small Asian person sit down across from him. It was that annoying Chinese-looking kid who was always promoting his books online.
You replied:
Tao looked up from the phone and across the table. Smiling, and obviously on opiates by the look of his eyelids, sat this guy named Gian who had just written a Vice piece about me. It was called ‘I like Tao Lin Now.’ This confuses Tao. Why didn’t Gian like him before? What has he done to him? But Gian had confessed his new feelings in the article and the love in the article dominated anything between them in the past.
By April, you’d “gotten used to” the lockdown. “it’s kinda how i lived before anyway. i’ve always worked from home.”
In July, you messaged, “man it was 3 months here in the country, only leaving for the grocery store. now it’s all back to normal.” You’d been swimming 50 laps a day in a pool. “i love it,” you wrote.
I said I’d been swimming in the ocean, and that my girlfriend was joining me in Hawaii soon. Many people were leaving NYC, abandoning city life after months of closed businesses and social unrest.
In 2021, my girlfriend and I moved from Oahu to the Big Island. While listening to a new interview with you, I messaged you, “liking your talk with sean a lot. making me miss you and also want to write.”
We discussed an idea you had for an anthology of one story edited by many editors. You said I should publish it. I said you should. We discussed other things, then you wrote:
dude / i tripped my balls off last night / such a long story / but i thought i was god’s angel here to do his work / and had all the power in the world / so wild / i called my brother and sister and freaked them out / i was just medicating for my clusters and went too far lol / but so beautiful
Two days later, seemingly out of nowhere, you messaged, “wild to think where we were 8 years ago.”
“yes,” I replied. “2013. damn.” The year we were closest to each other, when psychedelics helped end my addiction and your headaches.
“lmao. i was a freakin mess / ‘gian r u there’ ‘the aliens’ ‘they’re interested in this thing we have’ ‘family’ / i owe you for getting me to this place where i finally feel happy and enjoy life.”
“lol, forgot the aliens texts, and calling you,” I replied. “your voice was coming out of my head / nice, glad you feel that way. i owe you for getting me into and out of whatever happened i think.”
“we owe each other. nice.” You asked if I had WhatsApp. “wanna tell you about something like just in texts or whatever but i don’t think i have your number or even if you use a phone anymore.”
I gave you my Google Voice number, which accepted texts. I don’t know what you wanted to tell me—you never texted—but maybe it was about your new press.
Ten days later, on February 1, you tweeted, “I’m launching another press soon. Please stand by…” with two images of the logo for the press, called DiTrapano.
“sweet logo and name,” I messaged. The logo was a drawing of a car whose top half was on fire.
“thanks man. it’s gonna be huge launch. honor sean molly brodak gabriel.”
“excited.”
“me too like tons. dreamt you said it wasn’t good.”
“damn.” That was our last communication.
On March 31, while visiting the West Side of the Big Island, I learned from our friend Jordan that you’d been found dead in a hotel in Manhattan, where you’d returned for meetings about your new press.
A bad batch of heroin was going around, and multiple people had died, according to Jordan. A different mutual friend, who seemed to have knowledge of the toxicology report, blamed cocaine and ketamine.
One of the last people you spoke to was a mutual chemist friend. On his podcast, he said you’d visited his apartment and had briefly left to buy heroin, and that you’d told him your dealer said the heroin had been triple-tested for fentanyl. He’d told you not to believe your dealer.
Later, this friend told me he’d analyzed the heroin and found no synthetic opioids besides heroin, and that he’d heard the autopsy showed only cocaine and ketamine.
Your family didn’t release the cause of your death. However you died, it seems to have been an accident.
You were forty-seven. I tweeted a screenshot of your message from January, where you said you “finally feel happy.” Your obituary in the New York Times called you “a defiantly independent publisher.”
I imagined you passing through the internet on your way elsewhere. As you left, people talked and wrote about you, slowing time by immersing themselves in the book of your life.
Six weeks after you died, I published a collection of remembrances by me and thirty-three others in my online magazine.
Eleven months later, I dreamed I was behind you in a crowd, looking at your backside as we walked in the same direction.
Seventeen months after that, I dreamed we were walking toward each other. You were smiling. We greeted each other briefly—as if we knew we’d meet again soon—and continued in opposite directions.
A week after that dream, Jordan invited me to read at an event in Manhattan for a foundation that had been created in your name.
Two weeks later, I was back in the city for the first time in four years. It was November 2023.
The bar hosting the event was near Hell’s Kitchen, I realized while walking there on the night of the reading.
“We’re near where Gian lived,” I said.
“Really?” said Jordan.
“Yeah,” I said, waving my arm across the dimly familiar buildings to the west. “Somewhere over there.”
Hello, in all honesty I was not expecting to get sucked in, but I got sucked in nontheless, and if that's not a hallmark of good writing I'm not sure what is.
this brought me to tears, such a brilliant piece...such a sweet piece.